


Taking Some Time

by MissBayliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Chronic Pain, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sick Dean, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 46,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissBayliss/pseuds/MissBayliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and carrying a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst.  
> Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.

# Taking Some Time

Dean shifted in the drivers seat, wincing.  
“Hey, are you all right?”  
No, he wasn’t all right. His back was friggen killing him, involuntarily tensing and untensing and tensing again, sending aches down his legs and out to his ribs. The vamp had popped his left shoulder out again and it’d made a sickening crunch when he’d popped it back in himself before heading downstairs to Sam. Usually the pain let up just a little once it had been reset, but this time it was worse, and possibly something that wouldn’t just get better on it’s own. He hadn’t slept in 72 hours because of the nightmares and insomnia, and this level of exhaustion was anything but healthy. His left arm dangled at his side while he steered with one hand. His head pounded and his throat friggen burned, and he was desperate for another swig of whiskey to numb… anything. Yeah, he was _not_ all right.  
“’M fine…” he cleared his throat and rubbed his eye with his left hand, causing another jolt of pain and stars across his vision.  
“No, dude. Pull over, let me drive.”  
“How’s your arm?”  
“It’s fine, Dean. Pull over.”  
He obeyed, pulling off onto the shoulder. Dean tried to look annoyed as he swung his door open, but getting up was more painful than he thought and he wasn't up for long, desperately clinging to the side of the car as his legs buckled with pain and exhaustion.  
"Dean!"  
"Ah..." He groaned as Sam grabbed his left arm and crunched his shoulder up and down as he fought to keep him standing.  
"Where are you hurt?"  
"Get me in the friggen car," he groaned.  
"Back seat?"  
Dean nodded with tight lips. God, he wouldn't make it round to the passenger side.  
Dean made a chorus of more grunts and groans as his brother tried to gently manhandle him into the car.  
"What is it, Dean? How bad?"  
"Shoulder... Back..." He gritted his teeth.  
"Is it out?"  
"Shoulder? Nah, I put it back in."  
Sam huffed, "You put it... You put it back in," he shook his head in disbelief, "What about your back?"  
"Just hurts."  
"Did you get hit?"  
"No, it just aches sometimes."  
Sometimes like all the time.  
"Aches? Dean, you can't even stand!"  
"It aches bad," he said, defiantly.  
"Jesus, Dean."  
"There are pills in my jacket."  
Sam narrowed his eyes but grabbed Dean's jacket from the front seat, hearing the pill bottle rattle.  
"There's no label. What are they?"  
"Awesome, is what they are," Dean reached for them with his right, cradling his left to his chest.  
Sam stared at Dean as he struggled to swallow the tablets without moving from flat on his back.  
"Isn't you shoulder usually better once it's set?"  
Dean clenched his eyes shut, "Usually..."  
“Maybe you didn’t do it properly…”  
“I did it properly,” he snapped.  
"You wanna go to a hospital?"  
"No friggen way. Just drive to the motel."  
"I can't when your legs are hanging out of the car."  
"Okay," Dean said but didn't move, "Give me a minute."  
Sam sighed out loud and slumped into the drivers seat. The car bounced under his sudden weight and Dean groaned.  
"How long were you going to drive for? Until you passed out at the wheel?"  
"Thought I'd make it," he croaked, coughing as gently as he could.  
"Why didn't you tell me you had something wrong with your back?"  
"It's been like this since I was 23, dude."  
"Like _this_?" Sam looked over his shoulder.  
"There's good days and bad days, Sam. The bad days are just more often now."  
Sam shook his head, huffing his little angry laugh.  
"We could have been doing something about it if you had of told me..."  
Dean held his eyes closed. He was so exhausted he could feel a weight pressing down on him, so heavy, so sure. 

…

"Dean? Come on, man."  
"What?" Dean opened his eyes and tried to fix them on his brother.  
"Gee, those pills are awesome. Wanna come inside or you gonna stay out here all night?"  
Staying exactly where he was sounded like the best thing ever, but once the pills wore off he'd be worse than when he started.  
"Okay," he rasped, realising how sore his throat was. God, this day sucked.  
Sam tugged him across the leather seat and placed his feet on the ground. Dean still cradled his left arm protectively.  
"Can you sit up or do you need help?"  
Dean pressed his eyes closed for a second, thinking.  
"Gonna need your help."  
When Dean opened his eyes Sam looked a mix between shocked and worried.  
Sam grabbed his right arm and slipped his other behind his shoulders.  
"Ready? One, two, three..."  
"Ah! Wait, stop. Stop."  
Sam gently lowered Dean back down.  
Dean could feel the sweat prickle on his face and he felt like he was going to throw up. The pain was so intense he couldn't tell where it was coming from. It was all over now. His skin, his hair, his bones.  
"Oh god, Dean,” Sam sighed, “Deep breaths, breathe through it."  
"Sam..." He sighed, hand finding his t-shirt and gripping tight.  
"I'm here, Dean. Just take it easy."  
Sam waited with Dean until the feeling returned to his feet and hands and he tried standing up again.  
"One, two, three!"  
Dean gritted his teeth as every part of his body protested the movement. His steps were stiff. His back didn’t like his legs to move and the burning sting travelled all the way down the back of his legs to his ankles.  
“You alright?” Sam asked.  
Dean could have laughed at how stupid the question was but he didn’t. He had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.  
“Just don’t stop,” Dean said, through gritted teeth.  
Dean managed to make it into the room before he collapsed again.  
"Dean, whoa. Almost there, man. Come on."  
Dean struggled to regain his footing and scrambled to the bed, flopping onto his back.  
"God, Sam..."  
"I know. I know it's bad, Dean. Just try to breathe."  
"You might need to go back out... I'm gonna need somethin’ else."  
"I already stopped off at a pharmacy on the way. You were out cold. Just stay where you are. I'll get the stuff from the car," Sam said, placing a pillow under his left shoulder and another under his knees.  
"Yeah, not going anywhere," Dean grunted.  
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed back the bile. The pain in his back and legs had eased now he was horizontal, but it was still up there on the Winchester pain scale. His shoulder pulsed with its own heartbeat. His eyes felt swollen he was so tired. He didn't know how much longer he could stay conscious.  
Dean heard Sam re-enter the room, shopping bags rustling. He heard boxes being opened and Sam padding across the carpet to the right side of his bed.  
"What you got?" Dean asked, peeking through one eye.  
Sam was squatting down in between the beds plugging something in. It was a thick rectangular cloth mat.  
"Electric heat pad. Lower back, right?"  
Dean huffed, "Kinda the whole thing, but yeah, lower is worse."  
Sam carefully slid the mat under Dean's back as he tried to shuffle around to help him. He was pretty useless right now.  
"Dean, one more thing."  
Sam was standing with a black strappy thing in his hands.  
"Wassat?" Dean mumbled.  
"It's a sling. Don't fight me on this."  
Dean looked up at the ceiling. He had no energy for fighting.  
Sam took that as his cue and began gently fitting the sling to his brothers left arm. It required some movement of his arm to get it on and that hurt like a bitch. Once it was in place and his arm was secured nicely to his chest, pillow back under his shoulder, Sam cracked some instant cold packs and placed them on his shoulder. Dean hummed as the heat pad started to warm up and the cold began to numb his shoulder. He brought his right hand up and coughed into his fist, his throat scratchy and sore.  
"You okay?"  
He could feel Sam hovering.  
Dean nodded slightly, eyes still closed. He could use some water though. His throat was killing him.  
"Here."  
He peeled his eyes open and Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding out a glass. Kid was damn perceptive.  
Sam must have seen he wasn't going to be much good on his own, because he brought the glass to his lips and lifted his head for him. A small amount trickled the wrong way causing Dean to jolt with coughs, but by now the pain had got too much and everything was pretty much numb.  
"You've been coughing a lot," Sam said, placing the glass on the nightstand.  
"I just choked," Dean cleared his throat.  
Sam sighed, "No, before that. You've been doing it all day. Are you sick?"  
Dean relaxed his face and closed his eyes, "Yeah, maybe," no point in hiding how shitty he felt now.  
"When was the last time you slept?"  
_Aw, crap,_ Dean mentally cursed.  
"Cause I went to bed at 1 and you were still up... I got up to pee at 3 and you were watching cartoon porn... Then I was up at 6 to go for a run and you were in the shower. Did you sleep at all?"  
"Sam..."  
"No, Dean. We're going to have this discussion."  
"Guess I didn't sleep last night."  
"And the night before?"  
Dean opened his eyes to look at Sam. They were foggy. He knew he was looking through tear filled eyes. Tired tears, drugged up tears, pain tears... tears.  
"I can't sleep, Sam."  
"How long has it been?"  
"I guess 3 days or something... S'not like I haven't tried," his voice quivered and he was friggen angry for being so weak.  
"Okay... Okay, we'll worry about that later. I got you some pills, but I don't know what you can take with the ones you just had."  
“They’re oxycodone.”  
“Oh, uh, well, maybe we should wait to give you anything else.”  
“Awesome.”  
“Dean…”  
“’M kinda spinning here,” Dean moaned, closing his eyes.  
“Sorry, I just… you had those pills in your jacket pocket.”  
Dean moaned a noncommittal noise.  
“How often do you take them?”  
“Mm… I started with codeine, then it wasn’t enough… morphine was too strong. Still needed to work.”  
“Dammit, Dean… I can’t believe I didn’t know about this. I mean, I know about the nightmares, and the drinking, and I kind of assumed you weren’t getting much sleep but 3 days without _any?_ And this back problem, Dean… I think it could be something really bad…” Sam looked down at Dean. His lips were slightly parted and the lines in his face smoothed. Sam softened, “Get some sleep, big brother.”

…

"SAM!"  
"Shh, Dean, it's okay."  
"SAM!"  
"God, Dean..."  
Dean was burning up. He was sweating and thrashing on his bed, which couldn't be good for his back or his shoulder. What was worse was that he was yelling pretty extremely loud and it wouldn't be long before...  
**_Thumpthumpthump  
_** Crap.  
Sam opened the door but left the chain latched.  
"Man, it's 4 in the morning," it was the motel manager.  
"I know," Sam sighed, "My brother's sick..."  
"I've had 5 complaints in half an hour. I'm sorry, son, but I can't let you stay."  
"Please, I can't move him like this..."  
"Kid, I'm trying to run a business. I'm sorry about your brother. You've got an hour and I want you out."  
Sam nodded, rubbing a hand across his face.  
"Alright," he sighed, shutting the door.  
How the hell was he supposed to get Dean to the car like this? Where were they supposed to go?  
He couldn’t talk his options through with Dean like he usually always did. Dean was stuck in a hellish nightmare, screaming for his brother. He couldn’t figure it out alone. And there was only one other person he could trust. He pulled out his phone and called Bobby.  
_"If you're callin' at this hour it can't be somethin' good. What's goin' on, Sam?"_  
"Bobby... I need somewhere to go in Raleigh, North Carolina. We got an hour to get out of the motel so it's gotta be something quick."  
_"Whoa, slow down, son. Why the heck you gotta leave the motel? Where's Dean?"_  
"Dean's sick, Bobby. He's sick and he's hurt pretty bad... He's having nightmares. Too many people have complained. We gotta go but I can't take him anywhere too far like this and no motel is gonna be taking people at this hour."  
_"Okay, alright. Take a breath. We're gonna find you a place and then you're gonna tell me about Dean."_  
Sam sighed and nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, okay."  
_"You said you're in Raleigh?"_  
"Yeah."  
_"Listen, I worked a case out in Greenville a few years back. Poltergeist. She was awful grateful. Said I should let her know if there's anyway she could repay me..."_  
"This is a pretty big favour to cash in, Bobby."  
_"Well, it's all I got. So, start packin’ your stuff. I'll call you back."_  
"Thanks, Bobby."  
Sam stared at his phone long after the call had ended. He didn’t even know if he _could_ wake Dean like this. He hadn’t been able to so far. He ignored the worry that slithered up the back of his throat and set to packing up their stuff to get on the road as soon as Bobby called back.  
"We goin’ somewhere?"  
"Dean!" Sam startled, "Jesus..."  
Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed, sweaty and hunched, looking feeble.  
"What's goin' on?"  
"We gotta go, man. You were having a nightmare... Manager's kicking us out."  
"Son of a bitch..." Dean groaned.  
"How you doing?"  
"Peachy."  
"Well, you're sitting up on your own so it's an improvement from a few hours ago," Sam said, sitting next to his brother.  
"A few hours, is that all I slept?" Dean asked, rubbing his face.  
Sam nodded, "You've been tossing around and calling out the whole time too..."  
"Look, Sam..." Dean rubbed a hand up and down his thigh, breath shortening as he prepared for what he was about to say, "I know I'm not good at this whole asking for help thing..." He cleared his throat and looked down.  
"Hey," Sam said, "I know. We'll figure this out. We always do."  
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean looked up at him with dewy eyes, before launching into a coughing fit, "Uh, God..."  
Sam placed the back of his fingers on Dean's forehead, "You're still really warm, man."  
"Yeah, figures."  
"I'm waiting on a call from Bobby. He's gonna try and find us somewhere to stay for a while."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Dean... You can't keep going like this. You're gonna kill yourself."  
"Well, I'm not quitting," he raised his voice, sat up straighter and winced as it hurt his knotted back.  
"No one's saying that. We just need to take some time to figure this out... Get you right."  
Dean nodded, closing his eyes against another jolt of pain that drained him of all colour.  
"You should lie back down..."  
"Nah, I'll never get back up," Dean laughed, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.  
"You wanna let me look at your shoulder?"  
"Not particularly," he grunted.  
"You could have done some serious damage."  
"Oh, I don't doubt that."  
"Then let me see..."  
"Sam, I'm about to hurl. You poking around at my shoulder is the last thing I need."  
“Sorry. One thing at a time,” Sam said just as his phone began to ring.  
“Bobby.”  
_“I got something for ya.”_  
“What is it?”  
_“I called up Karen, the woman from the poltergeist case, bad news is she moved…”_  
Sam bowed his head.  
_“Good news is, she hasn’t found anyone to rent the house yet. It’s vacant. And if you boys wanted something a little more long term, she’s offering it to you at half the rent.”_  
“What are you thinking, Bobby?”  
_“Well, you said Dean’s hurt, right? And sick. And you know he hasn’t been right since getting out of the pit… the things he’s been through. Maybe you boys need a break.”_  
Sam looked at Dean. Dean was looking at him. His eyes were so tired, so old, reflecting the 40 years he’d spent in damnation. He looked small, arm in the big, bulky sling, lines on his face showing the pain he was trying to hide, a drip of sweat sliding down his temple, and this look of… desperation.  
“What’s the address?”


	2. Chapter 2

"How much further?" Dean moaned, from the passenger seat.  
"It's not far... you okay?"  
"No," Dean blanched, "No, not okay."  
"Just hang on. We’re almost there."  
Dean's breath sawed in and out. The pain was so much he couldn't think beyond a phrase in his head so he'd just repeat it over and over.  
_It's bad, it's bad, it's bad, it's bad..._  
"Dean?"  
His eyes were slammed shut, fighting tears.  
_Oh, shit. It’s bad, it’s bad, it’s really bad…_  
"Dean, breathe, man. You're panicking."  
Yeah, damn right he was panicking. He was freaking dying.  
"Dean, calm down."  
"Easy for you to say..." He forced out through clenched teeth.  
"You're having a panic attack. Deep breaths..."  
"It's... It hurts, Sam..."  
"I know but tensing up like that's making it worse, take some deep breaths, try to relax your muscles."  
Dean leaned his head back, face pale, lips almost grey, and he took a breath.  
"Not much further, okay? You're doing great."  
Dean opened his eyes to slits to glare at his brother.  
“Just trying to help,” Sam looked back at the road.  
“I know,” Dean said, taking a slow deep breath.  
“Is it working?” Sam asked, hesitantly.  
Dean nodded, “Yeah, it’s working.”

…

Dean was somewhere between asleep and awake when they arrived at the house. He was drifting weightlessly.  
When Sam woke him, it slammed into him like a freight train.  
"Sorry, man. We're here."  
"Where?" he rubbed his eyes with his available hand.  
"The house, remember? We're staying here for a while. It's safe. Don't worry."  
Sam seemed to be anticipating the questions before he asked them, like it wasn't the first time they'd gone through this. Sleep deprivation will do that to ya.  
"What're we waiting for then?"  
Sam laughed, "You to get your ass moving, grandpa."  
"Smart ass," Dean groaned, coughing sharply into his fist.  
At least his back had eased off, now it was mainly his shoulder to contend with, and the pulsing behind his eyes. Damn good time to catch a cold.  
Dean got himself out of the car, using the impala as a crutch. Sam slid a hand around his waist.  
"Dude, get off. I can walk."  
"Sorry," Sam said, backing off, but staying vigilant at his side.  
They obviously hadn't had time to pick up keys, especially at this hour, so Sam had to pick the lock. Bobby had made Karen aware of the situation, and she knew about their line of work, approving of their not-always-legal methods. Sam was so relieved for Bobby's connections. He honestly didn't know where they would have gone otherwise.  
When they got into the house it was almost too good to be true. The place was a four bedroom, two bathroom low set, fully furnished, with a double lockup garage for Baby.  
"Home sweet home," Dean grumbled in a vaguely impressed tone, all he could muster through the pain, sick, drug induced haze.  
"Not bad," Sam smiled, looking around, "Scissors, paper, rock for the main bedroom?"  
"No way, man. I'm the oldest. That bedroom is mine."  
Sam laughed, "You can have it, man. I'll bring the stuff in from the car and then put the impala in the garage."  
"Baby's never had it so good," Dean smirked, although he was fading fast and he so needed to lie down.  
"You wanna lie down? Think you can find your room?" Sam asked, studying the changes in Dean's expression. Dean was starting to think he was a little too transparent.  
"I'll find it."  
Sam smiled politely and stepped back outside. Dean, carrying nothing but the clothes on his back, and that was almost too much, started walking down the hall. His left arm held close on his chest by the industrial sling, seriously, the thing had more straps and buckles than a damn parachute. His right arm leaned heavily on any surface on the way from the front door to the bed. He was tired. He was thirsty. When was his last drink anyway? His mouth salivated at the thought of alcohol, a quake running through his whole body. His flask was in his jacket, his whiskey was in his bag, and his beer was in the cooler. Sam had his jacket and his bags and he couldn’t go and get them, not like this. Sam was never going to let him drink on oxycodone, you know, now that he knew about it. But he just wanted _something_. He just wanted to forget.  
Sam caught up with him halfway down the hall, carrying the duffles over his shoulders.  
“You good?”  
Of course he wasn’t good. It had taken the same amount of time for Sam to go back out the car, drive the car into the garage, grab all their gear, and come back inside, than it had taken him to stumble his ass halfway down the hallway.  
“’M good. ‘S’at my bag?” He nodded at the bag Sam carried, as they both entered the main bedroom.  
“Yeah, I’ll help you set up. Just sit down, I’ll get the heat pad hooked up.”  
Dean gingerly lowered himself onto the massive double bed.  
“You need anything?”  
_A drink. A drink. A drink. A drink._  
“Nah, I’m okay.”

…

The pain in his back came and went and usually didn’t cripple him like it had last night. He’d been able to successfully hide it from his brother for four years. It wasn’t great that their job had them driving all across America. Sitting wasn’t good. Lying down, or standing and walking, that was when he had the least pain, when he was able to manage it best. He knew Sam wouldn’t let it go, unlike his dad. Sure John didn’t like to see him in pain and he encouraged Dean to seek help but Dean refused, and John didn’t push, as long as it didn’t interfere with the job.  
As morning turned to midday Dean became evidently sicker than what he was the day before, and it didn’t help that his last drink was, _god_ , 16 hours ago? Was that it?  
“How’s your back?” Sam asked, standing at the doorway. The kid looked tired.  
“Better now,” Dean rasped. His voice sounded raw.  
“Shoulder?”  
“Not great.”  
Which Sam would know, meant terrible.  
“Fever?”  
“Hm,” he groaned, “Still hanging round… can’t stop shaking.”  
Sam sighed and came into the room, placing a hand on the side of Dean’s head. Dean didn’t want to be touched, but at the same time it felt nice, grounding. _This is real, this is real, this is real._  
“Did you sleep?” he asked, peering in Dean’s eyes.  
“Nah.”  
“Shit, Dean… You need to sleep. You can’t keep going like this.”  
“You don’t think I know that?” Dean snapped, “But I close my eyes and…” he choked, coughed, bought some time to get himself together, “I’m back there… I can’t make it stop.”  
Sam dropped his face to his hands, rubbing his eyes, “We’ll figure it out.”  
Dean turned away from Sam. He didn’t want his pity. He didn’t deserve it.  
“I’ll grab you some of the sleeping pills I got, and some Tylenol. You’re still a freaking furnace.”  
“Thanks, Sammy.”  
“We’re gonna talk about this, Dean. But first you need to get some rest.”  
“Rest,” he laughed, and did he say that out loud? Because that was supposed to be an inside thought. He must have, because Sam was staring at him, all furrowed brow and puppy dog eyes and he almost wanted to punch the look right off his face. But that was Sammy, _his_ Sammy, and dammit, that was all he had right now.

…

After the pills Dean slept a solid 19 hours, during which Sam managed to get 4. It was fine. He could manage. He just needed to get Dean right, and he was sure that would start with a good nights sleep. Thankfully Dean didn't stir, his eyes didn't flutter, he didn't scream, he didn't gasp, he didn't toss and turn. It was a beautiful sight to see him still. The pills had worked. Sam may have given him slightly more than the recommended dosage, but he figured he needed it. Dean wasn't as big as Sam... but he was still a big boy. He didn't appear to have nightmares, but that didn't mean the sleep had done him any good. He yoyo-ed back and forth between white as a sheet, and flushed red. He kept up a steady flow of sweat through the pores on his face, tracing sticky lines down his temples. Sometimes his breathing got heavy, and sometimes is was shallow, too fast asleep to cough up the mucus pooling in his lungs. Sam turned off the heat pad as soon as he'd fallen asleep. He couldn't risk that fever getting too high, right now it was at prime temperature for killing off infection, but he didn't want it to get away from them.  
So Sam watched, vigilant for trouble, while Dean slept, mulling over the extent of Dean's injuries and how in hell he'd managed to keep it from him all these years.  
23\. He said he'd had it since he was 23. What had happened while he was away at Stanford? Why had their dad not got the help Dean needed?  
He sat in a chair in Dean's new bedroom, laptop on his knees, googling what could possibly be wrong. He shouldn't have.  
Dean woke on his own at around 7 the next morning. Not screaming. Not crying. But congested as all hell.  
“Hey, how you feeling?” Sam asked, getting out of his chair and sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed.  
Dean’s answer was a cough. By the look on his face the sound of it surprised him as much as it did Sam. The last time Dean had coughed it was dry and grating, this one was wet and rattling.  
“That doesn’t sound good…”  
“Well, shit. I feel awesome...” Dean sniffed, sarcasm in full swing, “How long was I out?”  
“Almost 19 hours. I think that’s a record for you.”  
Dean rubbed his face, winced, “Don’t normally get that in a week.”  
“Yeah, well, you sure needed it.”  
“Did you get any? You look worse than me,” Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve.  
“I grabbed a few hours.”  
“Mmhm,” Dean hummed, as if he didn’t believe it.  
“How bad’s the pain?” Sam asked, remembering Dean’s panic attack in the car on the way there.  
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dean’s voice was thick.  
“Alright, let me see your shoulder,” Sam began pulling back the covers.  
Dean swatted his hands away with his right, “Get off. I’m gonna have a shower first.”  
Sam stood up as Dean dragged himself out of bed.  
“You gonna be okay?”  
“Dude, seriously,” Dean looked at him with fiery eyes, “Would you stop? Just give me an hour, alright? Go read something nerdy. I don’t need your help.”  
Dean lumbered into the ensuite and slammed the door behind him.  
Sam took a deep breath, counted to ten. He tried to remember that Dean was Dean, and he couldn’t always accept help.  
_“I know I’m not good at this whole asking for help thing…”_  
He wasn’t always going to open up to him. He just had to be ready for when he did.

…

Dean eventually joined Sam out in the lounge room, wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else, not even the sling Sam had wrangled him into the night before. As he approached Sam, the smell of cheap whiskey and cologne smacked him in the face, and by the glazed look in his eye, he’d drunk quite a bit, probably dumping on a bucket of cologne to try and mask the smell. Sam sized him up, the anger seemed to have subsided under the affects of alcohol and a hot shower, something was clearly wrong with his left shoulder. It hung lower than his right, yellowed with bruises. He was pale, his nose red like he’d scrubbed it hard, and there was a distinct wheeze when he breathed.  
“It doesn’t look right, does it?” his voice was nails and gravel and smelled like strong liquor.  
“Huh?” Sam said, too caught up in analyzing his big brother.  
“The shoulder,” he said, as though it should be obvious. It should have.  
“Yeah… you sure you put it in right?”  
Dean rolled his eyes and sat on the arm of the lounge next to Sam, “How many times have I had to put it in? I know what I’m doing.”  
His words were slightly slurred.  
“You’ve probably torn something, Dean. Can you move your arm at all?” Sam stood up and faced his brother.  
“If you want to do range of motion tests, I can’t be responsible for punching you in the face.”  
“Yeah, do your worst,” Sam laughed.  
Dean smiled, but listed dangerously close to falling.  
“Whoa, man. Here, sit down properly.”  
Dean slid onto the lounge, snuffled, and sneezed into his wrist.  
“Bless you,” Sam said, making a mental note to get tissues, “What’s the pain like?”  
Dean closed his eyes for a second, “It’s throbbing, doesn’t let up.”  
“What about in your hand? Pins and needles or anything?” Sam asked, sitting on the coffee table in front of Dean.  
Dean made a face, then sort of laughed, “Well…”  
“What?”  
He pointed with his right to his last three fingers on his left hand, “Can’t feel these ones.”  
Sam sighed, “Shit.”  
“I can bend ‘em though,” he smiled as if it were a great accomplishment.  
“Alright,” Sam shuffled closer to Dean, “Can I?”  
Dean shrugged with one shoulder, “You’re going to anyway.”  
Sam placed his hands around Dean’s arm and they went through routine range of motion tests, thankfully without anyone getting punched. Dean had bad shoulders, particularly the left. It was always popping out, since he was a teenager and had a nasty accident with a werewolf. Because of this fact, their dad had taught them enough first aid to know when something wasn’t right, when they needed to seek actual medical help. Dean didn’t have a great range of motion in that arm to begin with, but this was bad. He could move his arm slightly forward and back with a little pain, but lifting it away from his body, uh uh, not happening. He could make a loose fist, but as he said, he had no feeling in three fingers. The pain radiated down to his elbow, across his chest and across his back.  
“Okay, time to see a doctor,” Sam sat back as Dean hugged him arm in with his right hand.  
“Man, I hate doctors,” Dean groaned, coughed again wetly.  
“And we can add that cough to the list of things to talk to them about.”  
Dean looked confused, and drunk, “I’m seeing the doctor for my shoulder. That’s it.”  
“No way, man. We’re telling them about your back as well.”  
“What?” Dean straightened, “You don’t think I’ve been to doctors before? I know exactly what they’re gonna say.”  
“How could I think that, Dean? You haven’t told me anything about it!” Sam raised his voice, standing up.  
“Oh, come on,” Dean sighed, clearly not having enough energy to argue. Which was what Sam was counting on. “What do you want from me, Sam? It was on a job. I was unlucky.”  
“What happened?”  
“Oh, the usual. Thrown off a balcony onto the side of a pool table. It hurt like a bitch, but not straight away. Dad and I got out of there, finished the job, and went back to the motel. That’s when it got bad.”  
“Did you go to a hospital?”  
“Nah,” Dean shook his head, “We went to a doctor after I couldn’t get out of bed for 5 days.”  
“What did they say?”  
“They told me to take it easy, ice and heat, gave me painkillers, referred me to a physio, who referred me to a specialist.”  
“What did the specialist do?”  
“Never went,” Dean laughed, “The bills were too expensive, cops were on our tail… I was slowing dad down. So, I just took the pills and kept my mouth shut. Like I said, there’s good days and bad days.”  
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, “How could you put up with it for so long?”  
“There’s ways of coping… You do what you have to,” he looked up at Sam, eyes of shame and guilt.  
“Look, Dean, we’re going to fix this, but that has to start with you. You have to want things to change.”  
Dean coughed into his fist, pushed his spikey hair back.  
“I’m here for you, Dean, but you’ve _got_ to help me out.”  
“Alright,” he groaned.  
Sam smiled. Dean shivered and directed another sneeze against his wrist.  
“You’re a mess, dude.”  
“Shut up, bitch.”  
“Jerk.”


	3. Chapter 3

Things always seemed a little easier in the light of day. Dean had more wits about him, could scope out the place. Well, scope it out from where he lay on the couch. He was flat on his back, the sling back in place. He had to admit it did feel better with it on, and as long as Sam kept up a steady supply of ice it was all good. His throat was sore and his chest was heavy. He felt tired and sluggish. The fumes he’d been running on had run out a while ago. His back chewed away occasionally, but he was feeling a bit numb from the half a bottle of whiskey he'd downed in the bathroom before his shower. He didn’t like to feel like he depended on the alcohol, and he didn’t really think he did in the first place. Although it was a little scary the way his hands were shaking when he finally got them on that bottle. It was a sweet relief the way it burned his raw throat, a burn he wanted to feel. It was familiar, tender, dampening the feelings that so desperately wanted to get out. He thought back to the time they lost their father, how he was spinning out of control, wound so tight he was liable to explode. That was bad… and that was nothing on now. He was jumpy and erratic, sure, but worse than that he was damaged, broken, could feel tears burn in his eyes at any hour of the day, for any reason. He had no control, and it was terrifying.

At the moment Sam wasn't there. He'd gone out to do some shopping. The house was furnished but it wasn't stocked up. There was no food, no alcohol, no tissues, which he seemed to be needing more and more urgently... Luckily the boys knew how to live out of a bag. But it was different this time, this wasn't a motel they were staying at before they headed out again to the next hunt, this was... Dean didn't want to say it. It wasn't home. He'd never had a home. And he didn't know how long they'd be staying there. What if something came after them? Dean shuffled, peering to the side. Had Sam even salted the windows? 

…

Sam smiled looking down into the trunk of Baby, full up with grocery bags. It was safe to say he'd never seen that before. It looked good on her.   
He'd just been to see the property manager to pick up the keys to the house, not mentioning the part about them already being inside.   
The house looked better in daylight. It had a few steps leading up to the front porch, equipped with a few chairs and table. Nice garden out the front. The hedges would need maintaining.   
He piled up all the bags on his arms, refusing to make more than one trip, and closed the garage, heading up the steps to the front door.   
He unlocked it and pushed it forward with his shoulder. It made a crunching sound as the door ran over something. He looked down and rock salt was spread under the door in a great mound, and, _what the hell?_   
"Dean!" Sam shouted, looking down at the red spray painted devil’s trap on the polished hard wood floors.   
Dean didn't answer. Sam sighed and came inside, the salt crunching under his boots. He dumped the bags in the kitchen, looking around and seeing every windowsill lined with rock salt.   
He supposed he couldn't blame Dean for that. They'd been taught to do salt lines since they were kids. He was just protecting them. But the damn devil’s trap? Yeah, that one would be fun to explain to the real estate.   
"Dean?" He called again.   
He wasn't where he'd left him, sprawled on the couch. He headed down to his bedroom. The door was ajar.   
"Dean?" He tapped on it as he pushed it open.   
Dean was lying on his back on the bed, on top of the covers, empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the pillow beside him. His head was jolting from side to side occasionally, breathing rapid, sweat on his face.   
Sam sighed and approached him, "Hey, man, wake up," he put a hand on Dean's elbow, carefully avoiding his shoulder. The next thing he felt was pain.   
Dean's eyes had snapped open and his right hand had bent Sam's arm right back, any further and it would be in two pieces.   
"Shit, Dean! It's me!"   
Dean looked confused, eyes wild. He let go.   
"Sorry, Sammy."  
"What the hell, Dean?" Sam shouted.  
"Don't... sneak up on me," he panted, rolled to his right to cough.   
"Sleep well?" Sam asked, sarcastically.   
"Yeah, like a friggen baby," Dean huffed, "What took you so long?"  
"I went shopping and picked up the keys. I've only been gone an hour."   
"Oh," Dean struggled to sit up on the edge of his bed. Sam didn't help. Too scared he'd get attacked again. Dean had that jumpy look about him that he wore so often these days.   
"Nice devil’s trap on the wood floors, Dean."  
"Thanks,” Dean grunted, rubbing his chest, “I had some spray paint left over in my bag."  
"No, Dean. That was sarcasm."  
"Huh?"  
"You can't do that in here. We're renting."  
"What? You want to stay in a house that isn't safe?"  
"That's not what I'm saying..."  
"It seems to me like you've forgotten everything we taught you,” Dean leant heavily on his knee to stand up, “Do you know how exposed we are right now? How vulnerable? Anything could walk through that door and how are you gonna stop it!"  
"Dean..."  
"No. See, I don't want you to think that this is the solution, okay? This is temporary. I'm only doing this to get my life back,” Dean bent forward, coughing into his fist, face red after the outburst.   
"Okay, easy, man."  
Dean sat back down on the bed, reached for the bottle and realised it was empty. He cursed under his breath.   
"I found a clinic in town. You've got an appointment at three. You might want to sober up," Sam said, before he turned and left.   
He heard Dean coughing again as he walked down the hall. He knew he would react like this. He _knew_ it. Dean was a ticking time bomb on a good day… and this was one of his absolute worst days.   
Sam hated to be hard on his brother. He’d seen the upbringing he’d had with John as a father. How Dean was absolutely starved of love and affection, treated like a military grunt. He was never like that, couldn’t stand the idea of anyone treating him like that ever again. He would only use the tough love approach as a last resort. His brother had been through enough.   
“Hey, Sam?” Dean was trudging out of his room towards the lounge.  
“Yeah?”  
“Don’t suppose you got any coffee in those bags of goodies?” He croaked, with a sideways smile.  
A peace offering. This was Dean’s way of saying sorry without actually saying it.   
Sam smiled back, “Of course I got coffee.”  
 _You’re forgiven, dude._  
“Hook me up, brother,” He said, lowering himself onto the lounge.  
“Sure. Need some ice for that shoulder?”  
“Yeah, thanks, Sammy,” he sniffed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.  
“Don’t mention it.”

…

Dean’s fever came and went and he seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, waking with a start on the couch every time he did. They were watching some renovation show on TV, anything else seemed to put Dean on edge. He even looked at cooking shows with eyes full of terror.  
Sam kept up the ice on his shoulder, the heat on his back, and the box of tissues within reach. Dean’s cold was getting progressively worse as the day went on and now he was pretty much a sneezing shivering mess. Luckily they were already going to the doctor anyway.   
Dean blew his nose with one hand, then thumped his chest with a fist as he coughed like he was trying to shift something loose.   
“Sam,” he croaked, his voice shot.  
“Yeah, Dean?” Sam was sitting on the floor in front to the couch.  
“’S it time for more painkillers?”   
“You just had the cold and flu ones, I’m not sure if you can have anymore just yet,” he furrowed his brow.  
Dean gave a tight smile, “Alright.”  
“Is it your back?”  
He noticed how Dean was shifting in his seat, like he couldn’t find a comfortable position.  
He nodded weakly, expression pinched.   
“Is the heat not helping?”  
Dean bit his lip, “It’s not enough.”  
“What do you need?” Sam was getting up.  
Dean closed his eyes for a second, “I need you to help me move. I gotta lie down.”  
Sam was up, hands behind Dean’s shoulders, gently on the left side, _very_ gently. He helped him forward and moved the heat pad down, then twisted him to lie on his back. Dean wasn’t completely useless like he had been the other night, he was at least trying to assist.   
He hissed, sucking air in through clenched teeth as his shoulder came down on Sam’s hand.   
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, moving to help Dean get his legs up on the couch.   
Dean breathed slowly out his mouth.  
“Is that better?”  
“Yeah… just give me a few minutes,” he clenched his eyes shut.  
“Doctor’s appointment is in an hour. You gonna be okay?”  
Dean snapped forward with a sneeze, moaning in pain afterwards. He sniffed, “I’ll be fine. Sooner we go, sooner we can get this crap straightened out.”  
 _Hm._ Somehow Sam didn’t think it would ever be that simple.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, Bobby.”  
 _“Sam. How’s the house? Karen told me you’d been to see the real estate and sign some papers. Never thought I’d see you boys legit.”_  
Sam laughed, “Yeah, me neither.”  
 _“How’s Dean?”_  
Sam sighed.  
 _“That bad, huh?”_  
“I don’t know what we’re gonna do, Bobby. It’s bad this time…”  
 _“Alright, Sam, alright. Tell me what we’re dealing with.”_  
“He popped his shoulder again.”  
 _“Balls.”_  
“Yeah, but it’s worse this time. He can barely move his arm, can’t feel his fingers. I think he’ll need surgery.”  
 _“Well, we saw that coming with the amount of times the damn thing’s come out. But I’m guessing that’s not the end of it.”_  
“Not even close. He’s got a bad cold, awful cough, but I don’t think that’s the worst of it. He’s got something wrong with his back. He’s in a lot of pain.”  
 _“He told you about that?”_  
“What – You knew?”  
 _“Sure, Sam. John told me all about it at the time. He even left Dean here for a few months after it happened.”_  
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this!?”  
 _“You were out, Sam. Dean was handling it, and he made it pretty damn clear that he didn’t want you to know.”_  
“Why?”  
 _“Well, you and John were already on thin ice. He probably thought you’d blame him for the accident.”_  
“Why would I blame dad?”  
 _“… Guess he didn’t tell you everything.”_  
Sam shook his head, bit his bottom lip, “Why am I not surprised?”  
 _“Listen, Sam, you know what Dean’s like. He doesn’t like to be taken care of, and he’s always been about family. Don’t go grillin’ him for information. Let him tell you when he’s ready.”_  
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat loudly, “Anyway, there’s more too it. Since he got back from Hell he’s… he’s different, Bobby. He drinks a lot. He doesn’t sleep, and when he does he screams out… I don’t know what to do.”  
 _“You just have to give him time, Sam. You’ll figure it out. You always were a smart kid.”_  
Sam smiled, “… Hey, uh, you know it would be good for Dean if you could come and stay here a while… good for both of us.”  
 _“Sam, you know I’d do anything for you boys, but right now, with you out of the game, we’re down two heavyweights.”_  
Sam sighed, rubbing his aching head.  
 _“I’m working a case in Columbus, Nebraska. It’ll take me a day and a half but I’ll make it there when I’m done.”_  
“Thanks, Bobby.”  
 _“Yeah, yeah. Go and check on that idjit brother of yours, make sure he hasn’t busted something else.”_  
Sam laughed, “I appreciate this.”  
 _“Sam… look after each other.”_  
“We always do.”

…

Sometimes Dean didn’t know what he was dreaming. He knew he was remembering, bits and pieces all jumbled. Sometimes not even pictures in his head, just sounds… the screams… _his_ screams. Sometimes he didn’t see or hear anything. It was just the feeling, surrounded by blackness. And often that was worse.  
He remembered every moment of his time in hell. Every slice in his skin… every slice he made in someone else’s, every method of wicked torture. It was all in his head. He’d never be able to escape… because there was no way to escape himself.  
“Hey, you awake?”  
Dean stared at the ceiling, trying to muster the energy to respond. Sometimes the despair was crippling.   
“Yeah,” the breathed. His throat was sore, his voice high and strangled.  
“You okay?”  
Dean smiled, kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, “Yeah, Sammy, I’m good.”  
Sam hovered at his side, “It’s time to go.”

…

“You’re very… quiet,” Sam said, sideways glancing at him from the drivers seat.   
“Mm,” Dean looked out the window, and then glanced back at his brother, “What?”  
“Nothing,” Sam laughed, “Just wanna know what’s going on in that head of yours.”  
 _Yeah, you really don’t._  
“Did you go soft while I was downstairs?” he smirked.  
“Shut up, dude… I just… I worry about you.”  
 _You and me both, brother._  
“You worry about what you’re gonna have for breakfast. It’s like your default setting.”  
Sam laughed, “Stop being a jerk. I’m trying to –“  
“I know what you’re ‘trying to’, so stop, okay?”  
Sam gripped the wheel harder, focused back on the road.  
“I know you’re nervous… but whatever happens we’ll get through it.”  
Dean stared at Sam, eyebrow raised, “Feel better?”  
Sam smiled out the side of his mouth, “You’re such a jerk.”  
Dean laughed, which made him cough, and it felt like knives in his side, and that was new and fun.   
“Uh, god…” he groaned, pressing a hand to his ribs.  
“You okay?”  
“Yeah, just friggen coughing up a lung here.”  
“You want some water?”  
“Nah, I’m okay,” he groaned, pulling a flask out of his back pocket.  
“Seriously?” Sam had his eyebrows raised.  
Dean took a sip, hissed as it hurt his throat, “It’s an antiseptic, Sam.”  
Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head.  
Dean’s free hand was shoving the flask back in his pocket when a couple of sneezes escaped. He pressed his eyes closed and stifled two, jerking forward a little with each one.  
“Bless you.”  
Dean sniffed and reached into the glove box for some tissues. He found crumpled diner napkins. He blew his nose on them anyway.  
“God, I feel like crap,” he moaned, shuffling down in the seat to lean his head back.  
Sam didn’t say anything.  
“Now _you’re_ being quiet.”  
Sam looked over at him, puppy dog eyes firmly in place.  
“Relax, Sam. Like you said, we always figure it out.”

…

Dean sat on the exam table, sling off, shirt off, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and goosebumps.  
The doctor hummed as he placed the stethoscope in numerous locations down his back and front, asking him to breathe deeply. The problem was, breathing deeply started up a coughing fit that would not stop.   
“Okay, that’s enough,” the doctor said, as Dean tried to breathe through the fit. He got up and went to his drawer, pulling out a portable nebulizer.  
“Here, breathe through this,” he handed it to Dean.  
Dean sat, looking feeble, sucking on the nebulizer.   
The doctor sat back down, clasping his hands in front of him and looking at the ground.   
“Do you get any pain in your chest?”  
Dean nodded, weakly.  
“I thought as much. Look, I’m going to prescribe antibiotics for the chest infection. I also think you might be looking at a sinus infection too, with all that drainage down the back of your throat.”  
“What about his shoulder?” Sam asked.  
“Given what you’ve told me about your history with that shoulder, I’d say you’ve torn a ligament. Chances are the ligaments and tendons were stretched to breaking from the amount of times it’s been dislocated. Not only that but the pain down your arm and lack of feeling in your fingers tells me you’ve got nerve damage.”  
Sam looked at Dean. He knew this would mean surgery. He knew Dean wouldn’t want surgery.  
The phone beeped on Dr. Reid’s desk, “I’ll give you a minute to get your shirt back on. Excuse me,” he said, getting up and quietly leaving the room.  
Sam stared at Dean. He rolled his eyes. Sam didn’t ask if he needed help getting his shirt on. He knew that he did. He got up and wordlessly started helping him into his button down.  
“Is that helping?” Sam nodded towards the neb.  
“Yeah,” Dean grunted after he’d pulled it from his mouth, “I think it’s tapped.”  
Sam took it from him and put it on the bed beside him. Dean let a shiver run through him, sneezed into his wrist and groaned in pain.   
“Okay, man, come on,” Sam ushered, helping Dean over to the chair.   
Dr. Reid entered the room as the brothers were getting situated.  
“Sorry about that,” he apologized. He sat down in his chair and swiveled towards them, “Did that nebulizer help?”  
Dean cleared his throat, “Yeah, it did,” he said like he was embarrassed. Because it was humiliating to be sick and to need medical help. Bullshit.   
“I might send you home with one of these as well, just once a day, maybe before you go to bed, if it’s worse at night.”  
Dean nodded, lips pursed.  
“So, where do we go from here?” Sam said, pouncing on his opportunity.   
"First things first, I think we need to get a picture to work with. I want you to get an MRI of the shoulder and the lumbar spine,” He said, addressing Dean, “That'll tell us exactly what's going on."  
"MRI?" Dean asked, sweat beads forming on his upper lip, "'S that the one where you go in the big metal tube thing?"  
"Yes, but it's much safer than a CT scan and we'll get a clearer picture of what's happening."  
"Yeah, not gonna happen."  
"Dean," Sam said in surprise.   
"'M not doing it, Sam. Look, doc, can you just write me a script for some stronger painkillers?" Dean was looking wild again, glancing to his side, mapping out the exit.   
"That's a bandaid solution, Dean. We really need to see the problem, and aside from cutting you open and actually looking inside, this is the best option we've got."  
'Cutting you open' wasn't the best term he could have used.   
Dean stood up, shaky and unsteady, but determined.   
"Dean, where're you going?"  
"To the car!" He said, storming off and leaving the exam room.   
Sam hung his head.   
"Sam, Dean needs to have this done. It doesn't hurt and leaves no radiation like a CT or X-ray..."  
"Sorry, Dr. Reid, it's not that..."  
"What is his concern with the procedure?"  
"Dr Reid... Dean has been in some tough situations in his life. He just got back from active duty. He was held in a POW camp in Afghanistan for the past 4 months," Sam swallowed the guilt of lying to the doctor but he couldn't exactly tell him the truth, "He hasn't been right since. He hasn't told me everything that happened, I don't think he's really come to terms with most of it, but I know some... and believe me, it would shock you. There was… a lot of torture involved," Sam cleared his throat, fighting the emotion, "Enclosed spaces aren't good for him."  
The doctor bowed his head.   
"What's happened to your brother is awful. No one should have to suffer through that, but he has serious damage to that shoulder and nerve involvement in his lower back that we won't even know the extent of until we get a clear picture. These issues won't resolve themselves and from what I can tell, your brother has endured enough pain already. It's time to pick up the pieces."  
"I hear ya," Sam laughed lightly, "I hear ya, doc. It's just convincing him of that."  
"Sam, I can refer Dean to a psychologist. It's highly likely he's developed an emotional disorder like PTSD… It's not uncommon for vets to use alcohol as a coping mechanism either..."  
The doctor eyed Sam and that was probably _more_ embarrassing than anything that he'd been able to see immediately that Dean had a drinking problem. Alcohol had always been a big part of their lives. Dean had been drinking everyday for years, but since he got back from hell... now he was having beer for breakfast.   
Sam sighed, "No, thank you. It was hard enough to get him to come here today. There's no way he'd go for something like that."  
The doctor nodded, "I realise that. But this is a lot for you to take on with your brother. There are some things you're not going to be able to help with. He's going to need surgery for the shoulder. I haven't even seen the scans and I know that's what's going to happen. His back is a different story. If surgery is needed there, the healing process will take a long time. You both need to be able to deal with that, physically and mentally. Can you do that, Sam?"  
Sam looked at Dr. Reid for a long time. This man was smart. He was a good doctor and definitely knew what he was talking about. Dean needed this, at the very least.   
_It’s time to pick up the pieces._  
Sam shrugged, it was a no brainer, “… He’s my brother.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Sam had paid up and collected Dean's antibiotics and nebulizer he returned to the car. The passenger door was open and Dean was sitting half in, half out, bent forward, right elbow on right knee and his head in his hand. Sam could see his shoulders quivering with laboured breaths.   
Sam chucked the bags on the back seat and went to lean over his brother, hand on his shoulder.   
"You okay?"  
And for once Dean didn't lie.   
"What do _you_ think?" He looked up at him. His eyes were red.   
Well, it was progress.   
"Come on, let's go home."  
Sam gulped. When they were on the road everything was home, and nothing was home. The impala was home, more often than not. The motel room they were staying in, that was referred to as home as well. Just in passing, because what else did they call it? This was different though. This wasn't a home on wheels, or a temporary hideout while fighting a fugly of the week. This was... _anyway_ …  
Dean dragged his legs inside the car and shut the door. Sam went around to the driver’s side.   
It was uncomfortably quiet in the car. Dean's breath crackled and hitched. He'd probably been crying. Sam jumped when he finally spoke.   
"You can't expect me to do this, Sammy," Dean looked at him, red eyes, glazed with tears.   
"I know you don't want to... but you _need_ to."  
Dean cast his eyes to the roof, blinking rapidly.   
"I'll be there, Dean... We have to do this to see what we're up against. Nothing's gonna happen to you."  
Dean bit his lip, blinked away some tears. He shook his head and huffed.   
"You know why I don't wanna do this, right?"  
Sam furrowed his brow. Dean hadn't told him at first, that when he'd been pulled out of hell he was shoved back in his body. His body that was rotting, 6 feet under, in a pine box. Sam wasn't stupid. He'd asked him.   
_"Wait, I buried your body, Dean. How did you -"_  
Dean hadn't told him with words. He'd told him with his eyes. And that was almost more heartbreaking. It was obvious it had been traumatic, now more than ever.   
"This is safe, Dean. I promise. You can't live like this," he said gesturing to his back.   
"I've been doing pretty fine so far."  
"Yeah, well, now you're not."  
Dean's bottom lip quivered. He turned and looked over his shoulder, away from Sam.   
"Alright," he muttered.   
"Alright?"  
"Yeah, Sammy. I'll do it... I'll try."

...

Dean screamed that night, loud and relentlessly. Gasping like he couldn't breath. Sam didn't want to know what he was dreaming about. Prayed he wouldn't have to hear the screaming anymore. At 12:26pm a knock came at the door and Sam cringed, wiped the tears from his eyes. He'd tried to wake Dean, tried to calm him, but he couldn't get through to him. He was spiking a fever by the feel of it. And now someone was at the door, if it was the cops they were screwed.   
Sam opened the door and a big guy stood there in a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. A neighbour, probably.   
"There's a lot of noise coming from here. You guys okay?" He said tentatively.   
Dean screamed again in the bedroom and the guy took on a defensive stance. It was just in panic though. The guy didn't know how to fight by the looks of it.   
"Sorry," Sam sighed, trying to keep his emotions in check, "It's my brother. He gets nightmares. But we're okay..."  
The guy looked sceptical for a moment.   
"He ex-military?"  
Sam smiled tiredly, "How'd you know?"  
 _May as well continue the lie._  
"My dad was a marine. I grew up listening to that," he nodded as Dean cried out, quieter this time.  
"Our dad was a marine too."  
The guy nodded, looking sympathetic.   
"I'm Dave. I live next door."  
He pointed and Sam stepped onto the porch to look at the house. A woman stood on the front steps in a robe. She waved.   
"That's my wife, Maxine."  
Sam waved back.   
"I'm Sam," he said, shaking Dave's hand.   
Dean's whimpers travelled down the hall.   
"That's Dean," he added.   
"Well, it sounds like you've got your hands full. You boys let us know if you need anything. I know that's not easy to deal with."  
"Yeah," Sam nodded, "Thank you. Sorry for keeping you up."  
"Don't worry about us, Sam. I'll see you round."  
Sam shut the door and pressed his forehead against it, every fibre of his being screaming _this is too much, this is too much, this is too much._  
Then Dean screamed his name.   
_"... He's my brother."_  
His brother had never let him down, not once. Sam wasn't about to let him down. Not now, not ever.

…

Dean woke swinging. His shoulder was on fire, because, in sleep, he hadn’t known to be careful with it. Sam was standing over him, a bit of distance between them, like he was scared he’d lash out at him. It was a valid concern. Dean could feel the sweat dripping from his face. He was cold. He rolled onto his side to cough.  
“Sorry…” he muttered. Why he was apologising he didn’t know. It just felt like he should be sorry for something.   
“It’s okay… How do you feel?”  
“Awesome,” he groaned, wiping his hand over his face.  
“It’s time for more pills, I think,” Sam attempted a smile. Geez, the kid looked worn out.   
“Okay.”  
Dean took everything he was given without question, even the knock out sleeping pills he recognised from last time.   
“You gonna get some sleep?” he asked, husky voice and all.  
Sam nodded, “Yeah, I will. As long as there’s no more visits…”  
“Huh?”  
“Oh, nothing… a neighbour, that’s all.”  
Dean hummed. He could pick up on what Sam wasn’t saying. It was just a matter of time before someone heard him. He screamed in his dreams, why wouldn’t he be screaming in reality too? But now they weren’t at a crappy little motel at the edge of town, where the only people that could hear him were the ones making just as much noise with someone other than their significant other. Now they were in the suburbs, where people were sensitive about the quiet and their sleep. They were pretty much screwed.   
Dean stared at the ceiling. This breathing was still erratic from the nightmare. The faces were still in his head. The voices. The laughing…  
“You wanna talk about it?”  
Dean managed a smirk.  
 _There aren’t words… There’s no forgetting._  
“No thanks, Sammy.”  
 _Because it’s right here… forever._  
“Just call me if you need something… I’m only down the hall.”  
Dean nodded. His throat hurt too much to reply. Sam smiled, patted Dean’s head, while also gauging his temperature. He must have been satisfied because he left without further comment. He did look really tired. Dean hadn’t been able to track his sleeping, while he himself had been in and out of consciousness for days. He didn’t like the change in dynamic. Sam was the little brother. Sam was the one that needed looking after. And Dean was going to take care of him, no matter what was happening to himself.  
Dean lay there with his eyes fixed on the ceiling until the pain pills kicked in and he could relax. After that he couldn’t remember anything, because those knock out sleeping pills had kicked in as well.

…

Dean woke up early the next morning. He hadn’t remembered dreaming. The sun was coming in his window, painting the room golden. The sheets around him were damp, tangled in his legs and sticking to his chest. He felt rung out, muscles quivering with exertion as he forced himself up. He lumbered down the hallway, keeping his footsteps semi-quiet as he poked his head into his brother’s room. Sam was asleep sprawled out on his stomach, clutching the pillow under his head. Dean smiled, happy he was getting some sleep at last and headed back to his room to take a shower.  
Getting the sling off sucked. Almost as much as getting the t-shirt off over his head sucked. But he managed to ditch the clingy clothes and step into the steaming shower. He coughed so hard his eyes watered, the steam shifting things loose. He hoped that all his noise hadn’t woken Sam, but he stayed in the shower a long time and Sam hadn’t come into his room so he considered that a win. As an afterthought he realised he probably shouldn’t use all the hot water and turned off the taps. Drying himself with one arm was harder than it seemed. He was exhausted by the time he finished, and he still had to get dressed.  
Once he’d struggled into his navy blue button down and a pair of jeans, fitting the sling back on over his shirt, he headed down the hall to the kitchen. Sam was still asleep, on his back this time, when he walked passed the door. When he got to the kitchen he almost laughed out loud at the list on the kitchen bench. Sammy had made a record of what pills he had to take at what time of the day, divided into Morning, Noon and Night. Dean smiled fondly, found what pills he had to take this morning and downed them with a sip of water from the tap. It was after 10 but he figured that still classified as morning.  
 _What a good kid_ , he thought, placing a hand over the piece of paper.  
Next was the task of breakfast, he noted, as his stomach roared. Sam had bought groceries but he didn’t really know how to cook, and Dean had been too out of it to help the last few days. So all their food had been the pizza and Indian Sam ordered… and fruit loops for breakfast.  
Dean checked the cupboards for a toaster but there wasn’t any. The cupboards only had a few plates and bowls that Sam had bought. The rest of the place was empty. He sighed and got out a bowl, resigning himself to fruit loops again. Hey, he’d lived on worse.  
Just as he was grabbing the box he heard a faint knock at the door. He glanced around and swallowed a cough, before heading to the front door.  
He opened it and a young woman stood there. Short, brown hair in a bob. She was holding a few trays covered with aluminium foil and smiling.  
“Hi!” she said, jovially, “I’m Maxine, I live next door. You must be Dean.”  
Dean leaned against the doorframe, “Have we met?”  
“Oh, no, sorry. My husband came over last night and spoke to Sam.”  
“Mmhm…” Dean groaned.  
She shook her head, crinkled up her nose, “And suddenly I’m realising this was a very bad idea…”  
Dean stayed sizing her up.  
“I, um, I made you this!” she lifted the trays in her hand, “Just a few dinners and an apple crumble.”  
Dean’s eyebrow went up, “Apple crumble?”  
“Yeah,” she smiled, “Yes, it’s my mum’s recipe… I just thought I’d welcome you two to the neighbourhood.”  
Dean smiled, stretched out his arm to take them.  
“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll bring them in for you.”  
Dean pulled the door shut slightly behind him, remembering the huge devil’s trap on the floor.  
“No, I got it. It’s fine.”  
“Oh, okay,” she said, helping him tuck them into his arm, “Let me know if you need anything else… at all, okay?”  
He smiled, despite the look of pity on her face. He needed to know what it was Sam was telling these people, what lie he was peddling to get past the whole _‘spent 40 years in hell’_ thing. He figured he knew his brother well enough to know he was working the PTSD military angle. It made the most sense… but he still didn’t like it. No one pitied Dean Winchester. He didn’t want it. He didn’t _deserve_ it.  
“Thanks, Max.”  
“Oh,” she giggled at the nickname, “You, um, you and Sam should come over for dinner with me and Dave some time. I can make a fresh apple crumble.”  
Dean winked, “Make it apple pie and you’ve got a deal.”  
Maxine blushed as she backed down the stairs, “It was nice to meet you.”  
Dean smiled and shuffled back inside, shutting the door with his foot.  
The containers were warm against his arm and he couldn’t wait to tear into this apple crumble. It smelt delicious, and after eating a lifetime of crappy diner, and truck stop food, a home cooked meal was long overdue. Dean put the trays on the bench and grabbed his bowl, filling it up with the crumble. He paused to cough into his shoulder, fighting through a shiver that gave him goosebumps. His throat was wrecked, but dammit, he needed this. So, he settled on the couch with the bowl in his lap and the spoon in his hand and Maxine’s apple crumble.

…

Sam woke up to a pair of thunderous sneezes coming from the lounge room. He groaned and rubbed his face. Man, he needed that sleep. He glanced at the clock and noticed it was after 11. His heart pounded and he leapt out of bed. How could he have left Dean alone so long? He heard coughing followed by a thick sniff. _God_ , he was such an idiot.  
He padded quickly down the hall and found his brother sitting on the couch, smiling.  
“Morning, sleepy head.”  
Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair, “You sound terrible.”  
Dean sniffed again, “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.”  
Sam crossed the room and grabbed the tissue box, dropping it on his brother’s lap.  
“Blow your nose.”  
Dean grumbled, “Bossy…”  
“Did you take your pills?”  
“Yes, _mom._ ”  
“Shut up. Why didn’t you wake me up?”  
Dean scrunched up his face, “I can look after myself.”  
Sam took a deep breath. As he came to his senses after a rather rude awakening, he noticed some trays on the kitchen bench and a bowl in front of Dean that was almost licked clean. Dean must have seen his confusion because he supplied an answer shortly after.  
“Uh, chick from next door brought over some stuff. Dude, you gotta try the apple crumble,” he put a hand on his stomach, “So good.”  
“Huh,” Sam sighed, impressed. He’d have to go and thank them.  
Sam sat down next to Dean, glancing at him, “How you feeling?”  
Dean shrugged with one arm, frowning.  
“I’ve been worse.”

…

Dean cleared his throat.  
 _You couldn’t understand… and I could never make you understand._  
“Now go and make me some coffee. Then have a shower. You stink.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was right. The apple crumble _was_ delicious. They were lucky to have a neighbour that didn’t call the police, with all the noise Dean was making. They were even luckier to have one that would cook for them. He knew Dean would catch on to what he’d said to Dave, what he’d led the neighbours to believe. The meals were condolence meals, like when someone had died and you’d bring around a casserole. It was a pity gift. It was a thoughtful and generous gift, but a pity gift nonetheless. And Dean wasn’t an idiot. Dean was actually incredibly intelligent. He’d know this was for him, and it would only lead to more resentment. And right now, Dean couldn’t take any more.  
Dean coughed his way through the morning and Sam sat with him while they watched TV. It was funny. They were both staring at the screen, smiling when they were supposed to smile, laughing when they were supposed to laugh, but they weren’t really there. Both of them so absorbed in their own thoughts. Sam’s mind was racing on all the things he needed to do to get Dean better, what could possibly be wrong, what the doctor would find, how Dean would deal with the MRI, and if he could actually get through it all. When he glanced at Dean he looked shaken. His eyes fixed on the TV, but looking somewhere past it… He didn’t want to know what Dean was thinking about, where he was right now.   
Eventually Sam got up, pulling his mobile phone from his back pocket.  
“Where you going?” Dean asked, voice husky from lack of use.  
“I have to, uh, make an appointment at the scan clinic for your MRI.”  
Dean stared at him, “Oh.”  
Sam sighed, “You still okay to do this?”  
Dean looked back at the TV, switching through the channels, “I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?”  
Sam frowned, and went to his room to make the call.  
…  
They were lucky. The clinic had an opening in two days time. The receptionist had gone through a series of questions.  
 _“Does he have any metal in his body?”  
“No.”  
“Does he have claustrophobia?”  
“…”  
“Sir?”_  
Sam told them the truth, even though Dean would have punched him in the face if he’d heard him refer to it as a “phobia”. It had never really been an issue yet, but he had assumed some day Dean would be forced into small quarters and then the truth of his fear would come out. That was now. That was this.   
…  
Day turned to night. They went to bed.  
…  
There was a clatter out in the kitchen and Sam was quickly on his feet. Despite how tired he was he still had a hunter’s reflexes. He padded out with bare feet and his Beretta.  
He lowered the gun when he saw the light on and Dean rifling through the cupboards.   
“Jesus, Dean. You scared the crap out of me,” Sam slumped into the kitchen barstool.  
“Where’s the booze?” Dean immediately asked, eyeing Sam angrily.  
“Huh?” Sam’s tired brain wasn’t able to comprehend the question.  
“You went on a freaking supply run. Where’s the freaking booze?” He asked again, slamming a cupboard shut.  
“I went grocery shopping, dude.”  
“And you didn’t get booze?”  
“Stop – what?”  
Dean coughed, leaning on the bench, “Don’t mess with me, man.”  
“Dean, I didn’t buy any whiskey. You had a full bottle a few days ago.”  
“Yeah, well, it’s tapped,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair, tugging a little.  
“We’ll get some later, just go back to bed. You can have some more medicine.”  
“I think there’s some beers in the cooler in the car,” he said, like he wasn’t even listening, before wandering unsteadily out the door.  
Sam followed to watch him from the doorway, making sure he didn’t collapse on the way. Sam had known he was running low, and that Dean couldn’t drive with all the things he was dealing with right now. He had hoped this wouldn’t happen. Had hoped Dean wasn’t _that_ dependant on it… Obviously he was wrong.  
Sam stood, leaning on the doorframe for a long time, till the point where he was worried, because Dean should have been on his way back by now. He shut the door and headed down the stairs to the garage.   
He found Dean in the dark, leaning on the hood of the car, beer in his hand, like he’d seen him before so many other times in his life. Except usually the car was outside, and it was daylight, and he was standing with someone, not on his own in a dark garage.   
“Dean?” Sam asked.  
Dean nodded, taking another sip.  
There was enough light coming from the open garage door. The moon was almost full and the streetlights were bright, making it fairly easy to see Dean’s expressions.  
Sam went into the cooler on the back seat and grabbed another beer, popping the top off as he went to lean next to his brother.  
“Dean…”  
“Stop.”  
Sam gulped, looking down at his feet.  
“We need to talk –“  
“No, we don’t,” Dean cleared his throat, shuddered as he coughed uncovered.  
“I’m just worried…”  
“I know,” Dean sighed, rubbing his wrist against his forehead, “ _God_ , I know.”  
“Then talk to me, man.”  
Dean huffed, then chugged the rest of his beer.  
"I dunno, Sam. I used to be able to handle this. If I busted my shoulder, yeah, it'd suck, but I could deal with it... The thought of..." he trailed off, laughed a little, "going under the knife... after everything..." He bit his lip, turned his head away as the damn finally broke and a tear gushed down his cheek.   
"I know," Sam said, and he felt stupid because he honestly didn't know what else to say.  
"I feel like I'm barely holding on, Sam."  
Sam looked up and Dean was staring at him, eyes glistening, tears running down his cheeks.  
“And I don’t know what to do.”  
Sam nodded, biting his own lip to hold back the tears. He placed his half drunk beer down on the workbench.  
“Why don’t we start with coming inside, and getting you back to bed.”  
Dean coughed again, shaking his head.   
“You go ahead.”  
“I’m not leaving you out here, man.”  
Dean sniffed, wiping under his nose with the back of his wrist, empty bottle still in his hand.  
“The drinking… It helps you cope, doesn’t it? Numbs the pain? Helps you forget?” Sam asked, just wanting to understand.  
Dean cleared his throat, looked at his empty bottle, “It used to,” he said, as he pushed off the car and left his bottle next to Sam’s, walking slowly towards the door.  
Sam watched him, brow furrowed. His movements were stiff, and just as he got level with the door his back must’ve spasmed. He hissed as a knee gave out, instinctively moving his left arm to brace himself on the wall. The sling stopped him but the muscle movement was reaction. He listed to the side, shoulder connecting with the wall.  
Sam rushed to Dean’s side, grabbing Dean’s right arm and wrapping it around his shoulders.  
“Are you okay, Dean?” he asked, noting the sweat on his brother’s face and the pinched expression.  
“Gonna be sick,” he muttered, before expelling his guts all over the driveway, and his own shoes.  
Sam tried to direct him into the garden, but most of the damage was already done.   
“It’s okay, just breathe…”  
“Sam, it hurts… it really hurts…”  
“Okay, we’re gonna go inside, alright? Can you walk?”  
Dean nodded, coughing into the garden.  
“Alright, come on. Take it easy,” Sam said, as he began guiding him.  
“I’m sorry, Sam…”  
Sam did a double take, “What are you talking about?”  
“You should keep hunting… just leave me here…”  
“Dean!” Sam looked at him, as they continued to struggle towards the house, “I’m not leaving you.”  
“There’s no reason both of us – “  
“Shut up. I’m not leaving you, okay? Not ever. So keep moving your feet, and get in that house so I can take care of you.”  
“Lilith’s…”  
“I don’t care about Lilith, Dean! I don’t care about Cas, or the angels, or any of that! I care about you. I just got you back, Dean… I’m not letting you…” Sam felt his throat tighten, tears fill his eyes, the heat in his face, as he tried to get his brother up the few stairs to the porch.   
Dean coughed, bending forward.  
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’m not leaving you alone, ever again. You understand me?”  
Dean kept his head down.  
“Dean. You understand me?” he said, firmly, gripping his brother’s waist.  
“Yeah, I hear ya, Sammy.”  
“Good. Now get your ass in that house and don’t even suggest it ever again.”  
“Okay.”

…

Dean slept after he got him back in bed. Sam didn’t. Sam sat and watched his brother. His eyes flitted about beneath closed lids and his breaths were quick. He’d flinch occasionally, but he didn’t toss and turn like he usually did. This time it was mainly all internalized, and Sam didn’t know if that was better or worse.

…

Dean woke to pain. He knew the pain. He knew it well. It was an old friend, and he knew it better than he knew himself, but somehow it was still surprising. Surprising how weak he was and how easily he would fold. Bringing him straight back into those same old destructive thought patterns, again and again. As if he wasn’t used to the hurt, used to the sting. It burned deep and unrelenting, and was eating him up from the inside out. Or the outside in. He didn’t know anymore.   
“Hey, you awake?”   
_Sam._  
“Sam…” was all he could say, reaching out a hand into the void.  
“I’m here, Dean. What do you need?”  
“Just stay.”  
 _Please. Please… Just stay._  
His hand was gripped tight.

…

The sound of birds woke him, followed by a garbage truck coming down the street. There was light shining in his window. Suburbia.   
He rolled over to look at his watch on the nightstand. It was 7:40am. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen and he tried not to think about boiling water being poured over his flesh.  
“Sam?” he called, but his voice was wrecked. He coughing openly, struggling to get a breath once he started.  
“Dean?”  
Dean sat up, pain travelling down his legs but nothing too traumatic. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.   
Sam came into his room, holding a mug of coffee out to him.  
“Here,” he said.  
Dean took it and gripped it with both hands, pulling it close to his chest to warm him.  
“Thanks,” he croaked.  
“That was a rough night.”  
Dean nodded, taking a sip.  
“I don’t remember everything.”  
“That’s okay,” Sam said, sitting beside him, “Bobby called.”  
Dean looked at him. Bobby had a job. If Bobby had a job that meant they’d have to leave, and Dean couldn’t hunt like this. So, Sam would leave, and he’d be alone… again.  
“He’s on his way here,” Sam said, stopping Dean’s thoughts in their tracks.  
“What?”  
“He just finished a job in Nebraska. Should be here late tomorrow night.”  
Dean furrowed his brow, looking at the floor, “Why?”  
Sam put a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched.   
_It’s just Sam, it’s just Sam, it’s just Sam._  
“Bobby’s gonna give us a hand around here. I’m having a hard time keeping things together,” Sam chuckled.  
“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “Your cooking sucks.”  
They both smiled and Sam nudged Dean with his shoulder.  
“Yeah, and you’re Gordon Ramsay.”  
Dean grinned, “Hey, I cooked for my bratty little brother practically all my life.”  
“I don’t think ramen noodles and mac and cheese count,” Sam teased.  
Dean winced as he straightened, “We got eggs?”  
“Yeah,” Sam said.  
Dean put his arm out and Sam helped him to his feet, “Well, come on, twerp. I’m gonna teach you how to make breakfast.”


	7. Chapter 7

“It’s burning.”  
“Dean, I’m trying to –“  
“It’s burning!”  
“ _Crap_.”  
“Take it off the heat. My _God_.”  
“Shut up,” Sam said, stirring the eggs in the pan. There were only a few black charred bits.  
“Dude, you ruined scrambled eggs.”  
“It’s fine. It’s not even that burnt. See?” he tilted the pan, showing it to his big brother.   
Dean groaned.  
“Just go lie down. I can handle it.”  
Dean narrowed his eyes, but got up off the barstool, “Watch that you don’t burn the toast.”  
“ _Dude _.”  
“Alright, I’m going.”  
Sam watched Dean wander over to the couch. His shaky palm ran over his brow, before he coughed long and hard into his elbow. Sam tried to sound nonchalant.  
“You alive over there?”  
“Yeah,” he croaked, lying down with a loud groan. “Goin’ stir crazy here, though. I gotta get out, Sam.”  
Sam furrowed his brow. He knew what Dean meant by ‘out’. He meant a bar, with smoke and loud music and alcohol, _lots and lots_ of alcohol. It was only a matter of time before Dean scoped out the local haunt. But then again maybe he didn’t mean that. Maybe he meant a hunt. Sam didn’t know what would be worse right now.   
Dean sneezed and it snapped Sam from his thoughts.   
“Bless you,” he said, checking on the toast in the oven. They lacked the luxuries of even a toaster at the moment. All they had was one frying pan. He thought he’d done a big shop, but every second he seemed to realize there were more and more things that they still needed.   
Dean sniffled, then cursed.   
“Sam, can you grab me a tissue?”  
Sam grabbed the box of tissues off the bench and placed them in front of his brother on the coffee table, ripping out a few and handing them to him.   
Dean looked awful today, like _worse_ than he had the previous few days. He was puffy around his eyes, his nose was framed red and the skin was red and peeling a little beneath his 3 day stubble on his upper lip. He was pale and sweaty and shivering…  
“What?” Dean muffled through the wad of tissues.  
“Huh?” Sam said.  
“Why’re you staring at me?”  
“I’m not,” Sam lied, wrinkling his nose, before heading back to the kitchen.   
Dean blew his nose.   
Sam pottered in the kitchen, plating up the scrambled eggs and toast, with a side of burnt bacon. He didn’t care. He liked his crispy.   
By the time he’d put the plates on the table, Dean was in a fitful doze. He was making small whimpering noises, eyes flitting about under his closed lids.   
“Hey, Dean, wake up.”  
“What?” Dean startled, sitting up quickly as if he had to be ready for something.   
“You alright?”  
Dean’s answer was stolen from him when he started coughing again. Sam went over and rubbed a hand up and down his spine, careful not to jolt him. His back was warm and clammy through his shirt. Sam could feel him shuddering with the force of the coughs, and shaking with fever chills.   
Dean recovered from his coughing fit and placed his right hand carefully over his left shoulder, like he was trying to hold it in place.  
“You need ice?” Sam asked, still hovering at his side.  
Dean grunted, “After breakfast.”  
For the second time that morning Dean extended his arm to Sam in a silent plea for help in standing up. That in itself was worrying.   
Dean stumbled once he got to his feet and clutched at Sam’s shirt.  
“Whoa, you okay?”  
“Yeah,” Dean pressed his eyes closed, “Head rush.”  
Sam knew the fever probably had something to do with that, and the way he weaved across the room like his legs were made of jelly. Sam pulled the chair out for him and directed him into it. Dean’s eyes were roving, taking him longer to focus on things that were right in front of him.  
“Not bad, Sammy,” Dean grinned, when he finally focused on his plate.  
“Thanks,” Sam smiled, sitting across from Dean.  
Dean picked away at his eggs with his fork, and used his fingers when he got to the bacon and the toast, left arm completely out of commission.   
Sam could hear him breathing from where he sat.  
“You feeling any worse today?” Sam asked, trying for indifference.   
Dean glanced up, then back down. He sniffed in preparation to speak but started coughing again. Sam couldn’t tell if it was a forced attempt so he didn’t have to answer the question, but when he started turning red he stowed that thought.   
Dean turned away from the table and leaned over, his hand propping him up on his knee. He coughed sporadically.  
“You need your neb?” Sam asked, frowning, watching Dean struggle.  
Dean got a breath and managed to nod.  
Sam was up and grabbing it in a second.   
Once the mask was fitted around Dean’s face, Sam squatted down on his haunches in front of him.   
“Well, the doctor said we need to get you to cough, and the neb would make it easier to cough it up, so this is good. Means you’re getting better,” he chewed the inside of his lip as he struggled to convince himself.  
Dean nodded, breathing eased for the moment.   
“I’ll put this away for later,” Sam said, reaching for Dean’s plate.  
A warm clammy hand stilled him, heavy on his wrist.   
“Don’t even think about it,” Dean panted, small smirk on his face. __

__…_ _

__Dean knelt over the toilet and threw up his breakfast. His hands were shaking again. He knew he wasn’t sick in his stomach. It was because he was sick in his mind. Nervous, jumpy all the time, and he hadn’t had a drink yet. His new painkillers were awesome, but they made him freaking dizzy, and that didn’t help the nausea.  
He pushed off the floor and flushed away his mess. The shower was still running from when he’d had to lunge out in the direction of the toilet. He stepped back in, allowing a small whimper to pass his lips as he hugged his left arm close, his back now in spasms as well, and wasn’t that delightful.  
He heard a rap on the door.  
 _Son of a bitch._  
“Hey, Dean, you okay in there?”  
Dean bit his lip to stop from whimpering again, taking a moment to collect himself.  
“Dean,” Sam’s tone was much more panicked now due to the lack of response.  
“I’m fine,” I grated out, voice shaking only slightly.  
“You need a hand?”  
“No,” Dean leaned his head back against the tiled wall, let a tear slip free, “No, I’m good.”  
“You don’t sound good.”  
 _Persistent son of a bitch._  
Dean cleared his throat, tears flowing steadily with ease from both eyes now.  
“Can you bring me some clothes?” his voice choked on the last few words.  
“Yeah, okay. Hang on.”  
Dean felt sick again. He didn’t want Sam to have to help him shower, help him dry off, help him into his clothes. He didn’t want that. _He didn’t want that._  
He heard a knock again, “Dean?”  
Dean sniffed, stifling emotion, pushing down the tears. He didn’t want Sam to see him cry.   
“Dean, I’m coming in…”  
Sam paused.  
Dean stood leaning against the wall, shower still on, unable to move to turn it off. He didn’t respond.  
Sam opened the door.  
“Don’t friggen look at me,” Dean grunted.  
Sam had a hand over his eyes, clothes in the other.  
“Do you… need help?”  
 _Yes, yes. God yes, I need help._  
“No… just leave the clothes,” his voice almost hitched with a sob, his emotions getting away from him again, but he stifled it. Power through.   
“Dean…”  
“You can hand me the towel.”  
Sam had his back to Dean, while he reached for his towel.  
“You gonna shut the water off?”  
Dean huffed, “Workin’ up to it.”  
“Jesus, Dean…”  
He bit his lip again, so hard he thought he’d bleed. He imagined the water turning red, blood spurting from the showerhead. He shut the water off.   
He weighed up his options in a split second. He could stand there, freezing, soaking wet, until his body allowed him to move enough to at least put boxers on, or he could swallow his pride and any dignity he had left and let Sam help him.   
“Kay, hand me the towel.”  
Sam blindly held it out to his brother.   
“I’m gonna use it to cover my junk, and you’re gonna help me into my pants.”  
“Okay. Okay, sure,” Sam said, immediately finding him his boxers, and setting the rest of the clothes on the counter, back still to Dean.  
Dean did his best at drying with one arm, the other numb at his side. He held the towel against his downstairs region.   
“Alright, hurry up with those,” he ordered Sam.  
Sam turned around obediently and took in his brother in an instant. Just like Dean’d taught him to. But Sam was all business when he had a job to do. He just squatted down at his brother’s feet, without a word, and started helping him into his boxers.  
Once they were high enough for Dean to grab without bending, he took over.   
Sam took a deep breath, standing up, “Okay, you wanna sit? I can dry you off, dude.”  
Dean wasn’t sure he wouldn’t collapse if he tried to walk.  
Sam helped him.   
He got through to the bedroom, and eased down onto the bed. He tilted backwards and Sam righted him.  
“Just a second. Let me dry you. Then you can lie down.”  
Dean drifted, as Sam ran the towel over him. It was soft. Softer than anything in hell. Hell was hard. Hard, dark and cold.  
“Dean, how hot did you have the shower?” Sam asked.  
Dean shrugged, then winced, “I dunno…”  
“’Cause you’re really warm.”  
A palm found his forehead and pressed in firm.   
“Holy crap…”  
“’S alright, Sammy.”  
“No, it’s not, Dean,” he mumbled, “Okay, you can lie back.”  
Sam helped him down onto his bed, rolling him onto his right side.  
“Here, put this pillow between your legs.”  
Dean didn’t know how suddenly Sam seemed to know exactly what to do.   
“I’ll be right back.”  
Dean teetered on the edge of consciousness. He struggled to stay where he was. To stay on the bed, with soft pillows and soft sheets and soft brother’s voices. As he tiptoed towards sleep everything grew hard. Hard racks, hard hooks in his side, hard voices, no voices… alone. Again.   
“Dean, hey. Open your mouth.”  
Dean clung to Sam’s voice, forced his eyes open.   
“Gotta take your temperature, stay with me.”  
 _I’m with you, Sammy._  
“Good,” Sam laughed.   
The thermometer was placed under his tongue and eventually it beeped._ _

__…_ _

__Sam removed the thermometer from his brother’s slack mouth.  
103.4.  
“Dean?”  
Dean was _out._   
Sam rose quickly and turned on the ceiling fan to full, wishing now he’d left Dean wet. His fever was too high. Way too high.   
He went out to the kitchen. He checked the freezer. They didn’t have any ice left. How could Sam have not anticipated this? Dean was running through ice rapidly and he’d used up the last of it about an hour ago. They didn’t have a back up. They didn’t have ice packs, cold packs, nothing. He opened the fridge in his useless search and saw the takeaway container carrying Maxine’s homemade lasagne. It had a landline number scrawled on the top, beneath the words _‘Dave and Maxine’._  
Sam reached for his phone, dialling the number with slippery fingers.   
“Hello? Maxine?”  
 _“Sam, is that you?”_  
“I need some help.”_ _


	8. Chapter 8

“Sam, what’s wrong?”  
“My brother’s sick. His temperature’s 103.4. I don’t… I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” Sam tugged a hand through his hair.  
“Okay, Sam, stay calm. I’m coming over.”  
“We ran out of ice.”  
“That’s okay. I’ll bring some things over.”  
“Thank you,” Sam hung the phone up and went to open the door.  
 _Freaking devil’s trap._  
He grabbed the rug from the lounge room and dragged it to cover up the red paint. He was sweating now. Fear and adrenaline and he had to _help Dean into his friggen pants._  
Dean.  
He left the front door wide open and went back down the hall to his brother. He put a hand on his cheek. Warm, clammy skin. Sticky like dough.   
“It’s okay, Dean. You’re gonna be okay,” Sam whispered, more to himself than to Dean.   
“Hello? Sam?”  
Maxine’s voice drifted in.  
“Come in. It’s down the hall.”  
He looked up as she cautiously entered the room, canvas shopping bag in her hand.   
“What’s wrong with him?” she rounded the bed to look at Dean.  
“Uh, chest infection, sinus infection too I think… just sick.”  
“Is he on antibiotics?” she asked, pulling some ice packs out of her bag.  
“Yeah, um, I have a list somewhere. In the kitchen.”  
“A list?”  
“Of his medications.”  
“Oh,” she said, trying not to appear surprised it sounded like. It didn’t work, “Here,” she handed him an ice pack, “Put this behind his neck.”  
Sam did as she said. He was handed two more small ice packs wrapped in cloth that he tucked under Dean’s right arm, and behind his curled knee.   
“Where are your wash cloths?” Maxine asked.  
Sam cleared his throat, “Uh, we don’t… have any.”  
Maxine’s eyes flitted around the room, “Oh, okay. I can go and get some from my house.”  
“Sorry,” he began to explain, “We don’t have a lot of stuff, yet…”  
“It’s fine, Sam. I’ll be right back,” she smiled.  
Sam put his head in his hands.

…

Maxine helped Sam with cold wash cloths, rinsing them out and rewetting them when Dean’s fevered skin burned right through them. Eventually his temperature started to come down.  
Sam sighed, “Thank you for helping me, for helping Dean. But you might want to leave. You won’t want to be around when he starts dreaming.”  
Maxine shuffled from foot to foot.  
“Is it every night?” she asked.  
Sam didn’t know if he was going to laugh or cry, just out of sheer exhaustion, “Yeah, most nights… I think it’s every time he closes his eyes.”  
“That must be awful. How do you handle seeing him like that?”  
“I used to get nightmares… bad. Dean was always there. Now it’s my turn.”  
“Something tells me this is different.”  
“Yeah,” Sam sighed, “Yeah, this is different.”  
Maxine looked uncomfortable before speaking again, “Do you know… what happened to him?”  
This time Sam did well up. He shook his head, “He doesn’t talk about it, says I wouldn’t understand. But I know it was bad. He got tortured… all the time.”  
“My god…”  
“It’s just too much for anyone to handle.”  
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”  
“Don’t be.”  
A crackling came from Maxine’s bag.  
“What’s that?” he asked, as she discreetly started searching through her bag.  
“It’s, uh, a baby monitor…”  
“A baby monitor? You have a baby?”  
“Yeah,” she smiled.  
“Maxine,” Sam stood up from his brother’s side, “You didn’t have to come over…”  
“No, Sam, it’s okay. He’s sleeping. I got great range on this thing,” she waggled the device in her hand.   
“You should go,” Sam glanced back at Dean, “We’ll be fine.”  
She smiled, “Okay… but if you need anything, call us. I mean it.”

…

Dean was surrounded by blackness. His lungs burned as he took his first shuddering breath in. He tried to scream but he had nothing left in him. No sound, no voice. Lost from disuse. The air was thick, hot. He found his lighter in his pocket and flicked it on. Wood. Surrounding him on every side. Closing in. Tighter and tighter.  
 _“Help! Help me!”_  
His voice squeaked. No one helped. No one saved him.   
He formed fists with his stiff hands and began bashing on the pine box, slowly cracking the lid of his coffin.   
Dirt came pouring in on him. He choked on it.  
 _“Dean! Wake up!”_  
Dean’s eyes flew open and he coughed, rolling off the bed onto his knees. The jolt sent pain up through his back, crippling him again, as he gasped on the floor.  
“Breath, Dean. It’s okay…”  
Dean slumped against his brother, who had appeared at his side.   
“You’re okay... You’re okay.”  
“Crap,” Dean cursed, “That sucked.”  
Sam helped him up to sit on the edge of his bed.   
“What were you dreaming?”  
Dean’s eyes met Sam’s.  
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, looking down.  
Dean cleared his throat, “I’m starving. Lunch time?”  
“Dean…”  
“Leave it alone, Sam,” Dean said, firmly.   
Sam nodded, “You spiked a fever this morning. Do you remember?”  
Dean let sit with his memories for a moment, before the real and the super-real and the supernatural all slipped into place.  
“Uh, bits and pieces.”  
 _I know you had to help me out of the shower and into my friggen pants._  
“I was really worried. We ran out of ice, so I had to call Maxine.”  
“Max?” Dean asked, rubbing his head, “From next door?”  
“Yeah. She brought some stuff over. Helped me get your fever down.”  
“Oh.”  
Dean felt a burn travel down his arm from his shoulder. His back clenched simultaneously.   
“You okay?”  
Dean smiled, “Yeah, I’m okay, Sammy,” he reached out and touched Sam’s knee with a pat.

…

Dean took the fistful of medication his brother shoved on him. Two for the pain, one for the infections, two for the fever, one to relax his muscles. They grated on the way down but half an hour later he felt almost human.   
“Pharmacology, man,” he said, looking up at his hand as he lay on the couch.  
“What’s that?”  
“Nothin’,” Dean chuckled.  
“You tripping out over there?” Sam laughed.  
“I feel _awesome._ ”  
Sam laughed again, “Good to hear it. You still hungry?”  
“Mm,” Dean moaned, rubbing his hand on his belly.   
“I made you a sandwich. Wanna eat it at the table?”  
Dean frowned, “I feel good, but not good enough to move.”  
Sam delivered the sandwich to his semi-comatose brother.  
“Dude, is this PB and J?” Dean asked, grabbing a half off the plate, trying not to move from lying flat.  
“Yeah, is that okay?”  
“Are you 12?” Dean smirked.  
“Shut up. What’s wrong with PB and J?”  
“Nothing, man,” Dean smiled, “Absolutely nothing.”  
Sam hovered at Dean’s side.  
“What are you? My butler?” Dean asked gruffly, “You gonna stand there all day? Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”  
Sam sighed, small smile on his lips, and sat down in the armchair at the end of the couch near Dean’s feet.  
“I was in my coffin.”  
“What?” Sam startled, jaw tensing.  
“That’s what I was dreaming about when you woke me up this morning.”  
“Oh…”  
Silence filled the room.  
“You wanted to know,” Dean spoke into the void.  
Sam paused, letting the admission hang in the air.  
“What was…” Sam stopped, as if afraid, but too curious not to continue, “What was it like?”  
Dean stiffened, felt the walls of the room close in around him. But he’d started this. The drugs had let these thoughts slip free, tumbling from his mouth and he couldn’t stop it, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.   
“Um… it was dark… Just,” he shook his head, “nothing… I tried to scream but my throat was too dry. I had to scratch and claw through the wood. It tore me up good. And I just remember the air. Hot and musty… and the smell… death.”  
“God,” Sam breathed.  
“But it… it was kind of a relief, you know? After…”  
“Yeah,” Sam supplied, when Dean didn’t continue.  
“This MRI… I’m scared, Sam.”  
“I know, but it’s going to be okay.”  
“I’m just worried I’ll freak out. It’s embarrassing, man. Our neighbours already think I’m a freak.”  
“You can’t help it.”  
“Yeah, that makes it even worse.”

…

Sam and Dean sat in silence while Dean munched on his PB and J. Pulling it apart into little pieces before he stuffed it in his mouth.  
“How’s the sandwich?”  
“It’s good, Sammy,” Dean said, but he didn’t smile.  
Sam wondered if Dean was broken now, from the conversation, the things he’d shared. Retreating back into himself. Not letting anything out until it came rushing, pushed out by relaxants and painkillers and emotions he just couldn’t hide anymore.  
 _“This… inside me.  
I wish I couldn’t feel anything, Sammy…”_  
“You wanna go somewhere for dinner tonight?”  
Dean craned his head to look at Sam.  
“You gonna let me, nurse?”  
“Very funny, dude. You can decide whether you’re up to it or not.”  
Dean stared at the ceiling.  
“It was just a suggestion. We don’t have to.”  
“Sam, are you kidding? I’ve been going crazy here. Of course I wanna go out.”  
“I mean, are you –“  
“I know what you mean,” Dean cut him off, “I’ll be okay, Sammy.”

…

"Hey, Sam?" Dean called from his bedroom.   
"Yeah?" Sam appeared at the door.   
"A little help," he waved his shirt in the air.   
He'd spent ten minutes trying to get it on and now he was just sore and tired. Thank, God he'd been able to get his jeans on by himself.  
"Sure, man. Sit down."  
Sam helped Dean into his t-shirt, button down and coat, fitting the sling over his clothes.   
"Do you want me to fix your hair?"  
Dean's hair was soft and fluffy. He hadn't put gel in it for days.   
"Yeah... My arm's getting tired."  
Sam did his hair quickly.  
“There you go, man.”  
“Thanks,” Dean grunted, as he sniffed.  
He really felt like crap. But a restaurant or a bar or wherever the hell they were going, would have alcohol. And there wasn’t anything he needed more, right now.  
“You know you can’t drink anything tonight, right?” Sam said, casually, as if reading his mind.  
“What?” Dean replied, suddenly and far too desperately.  
“You’re on antibiotics.”  
Dean put his head in his hand, tried to stop from shaking, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
“You know you can’t drink on antibiotics, dude.”  
“Yeah, I… I forgot… I just… I wasn’t thinking.”  
“It’s alright,” Sam said, face firm, not babying Dean like he probably wanted to, not lowering his voice and dipping his head and giving puppy eyes full of pity.  
Dean didn’t want to go now. All of a sudden he realized that alcohol was the only reason he’d wanted to leave the house in the first place, and dammit, if that didn’t scare him.  
“You ready to go?” he steeled himself. He wouldn’t let Sammy see his weakness. Not this time.  
“Yeah, come on.”  
Sam turned and left the room. Dean put his head back in his hand, felt the tears burn in his eyes.  
 _I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing._


	9. Chapter 9

Sam drove, and Dean sat in the passenger seat using his phone to look up alcohol and antibiotics. He could drink. He _could_ drink. He just couldn’t get drunk. That was fine with him. It took _a lot_ to get him drunk these days anyway. Dean sighed in contentment and pushed his phone into his pocket, surprised at how relieved he was.  
Doctors said not to drink because your body was fighting an infection and alcohol wasn’t great for promoting healing. Also antibiotics wouldn’t work if you drank to intoxication. Well, the one he was on anyway. He couldn’t help but smile smugly, knowing on this one occasion he actually knew more than his little brother. Best to not let him think that though.  
“I passed this place when I went to the mall the other day,” Sam said.  
Dean laughed.  
“What?”  
“You went to a mall.”  
Sam smiled back, “Well, yeah, dude.”  
“It’s just funny,” Dean shook his head.   
“Glad to see you’re so amused,” Sam smirked, “You can go next time.”  
Dean’s smile faded slightly, “Yeah, maybe.”  
Sam’s face grew tight. Dean looked out the window. He knew his brother had said it without thinking. Dean hadn’t been able to go out until now, because of the pain, and the sleep deprivation, and how sick he was. He would have gone if he could have. Then again, if he were well enough to go shopping they wouldn’t be staying in this place. They’d still be hunting down evil, saving people, trying to stop the freaking apocalypse…  
 _“This is big. End of the world, big.”  
“Well, just let it end!”_  
“How’s the pain?” Sam asked, voice hushed as if talking quietly about it was going to change anything.  
Dean shrugged. What pain was Sam even referring to? The pain in his back? The pain in his shoulder? The pain in his lungs and behind his eyes? Or the pain in his heart? Which was far greater than any physical pain he could endure.  
“Drugs are wearing off,” was all he said.   
“You can have more with dinner.”  
“I’d rather wait till we get home. I don’t wanna be so out of it I can’t walk back to the car,” Dean chuckled, but it was empty, joyless. Just like him.  
Sam chuckled back, meeting Dean’s level of enthusiasm, which wasn’t very high, “Yeah, you might have a point there. Just see how you go. We can come back home as soon as we’ve eaten.”  
And there it was. Both of them had said it in a matter of seconds. _Home._

…

Dean walked into the bar, slipping back to his cocky, go-lucky attitude, as if nothing was even wrong. After all, he’d been in and out of bars his whole life. The smell of beer and deep fried food. The sounds of the locals and several TV’s displaying whatever game was on at the time. Beautiful waitresses wearing tight black tops. This was what Dean lived for. This was his home.   
He tried to walk with the cocky swagger he always adopted when he walked into these kinds of places, but his back was tightening, seizing up his legs till he walked with a slight limp. The sling suddenly felt heavy against his chest, useless arm hanging in it like dead weight, dragging him down, holding him back. He felt eyes on him, almost heard the murmured questions asking what was wrong with that guy? He knew he looked like hell, felt like hell, had been through hell… literally.  
“Just the two of you?” the hostess chirped, grabbing a couple of menus.  
“Unless you wanna join us?” Dean spoke gruffly, winking at her.  
“Try not to hurt yourself, hotshot,” she grinned and flounced off in front of them, directing them to a table.  
It should have been a comment he didn’t give a second thought. But it wasn’t.   
Sam’s hand gripped the back of his neck as they walked through the tables. Letting Dean know that Sam hadn’t missed what that exchange had felt like to him. The comforting strong hand on the bare of his neck shouldn’t have broken him the way it almost did.   
“Here you go, guys,” she said, ushering them to their table, placing the menus in front of their seats.  
Dean leaned heavily on the table with his right hand, preparing to lower himself into the chair. It didn’t have arms on it, so he had nothing to brace on. Sam came to his side and grabbed his arm roughly.  
“I got you,” he said.  
“I got it,” Dean bit, pulling his arm away, “Get off.”  
Sam backed away and gave the hostess an awkward smile.  
Dean couldn’t tell what he read on her face. Sympathy? Pity? With a hint of amusement? Whatever it was it made his face burn with embarrassment that Dean friggen Winchester should never have had to experience.   
“He worries too much,” he tried for his lady-killing grin but he knew he didn’t quite get there.   
_Geez_. Dean considered himself many things. Self-conscious was not one of them.  
The hostess laughed a little, clearly flirting with him but the effect had worn off now. Dean wasn’t interested. After all, he was useless anyway.  
Dean sat down, easing the burn in his legs.  
“Can I get you any drinks?” she said, tossing her hair back off her shoulder.  
Dean didn’t dare glance at Sam. He waited.  
“Just water, thanks,” Sam said, with a smile in his voice.  
Dean just nodded, smirking at her as she shrugged and walked away, uttering a “sure thing” behind her.

…

Dean ordered a steak burger with extra bacon and extra onion, a side of fries and ketchup. He barely glanced up to see what Sam had got. Some grilled chicken thing with lots of green leaves. Rabbit food.  
Dean placed his burger down to cough into his elbow. He’d really taken for granted eating a burger with two hands.  
“You good?” was all Sam said, as Dean hacked.  
He cleared his throat, “Yeah,” his voice was husky.  
Dean didn’t polish his plate like he usually did. He was feeling queasy. Too much pain, plus time for more pills. Not a good combination. He began to sweat as he wondered when he’d get his opportunity to head to the bar for a quick drink without Sam knowing. He was starting to think about lying and asking Sam to grab his pills that he’d left in the car, even when he knew they were snug in his coat pocket, when Sam saved him.  
“I’m gonna hit the head. Then we can go. You’re looking a little green.”  
Dean swallowed, then nodded, and Sam left.  
He waited till Sam had disappeared into the men’s room and hurriedly got out of his chair and headed to the bar.  
“4 shots of whiskey. Line ‘em up,” he threw a bill down on the counter.  
The bartender looked curiously at him but lined up the shots and started pouring.  
Dean glanced back over his shoulder at the men’s room door repeatedly.  
When the shots were poured he threw them back, one after the other, in quick succession. Hardly time to breathe in between, worried that Sam would catch him.  
He headed back to the table while his throat was still burning.  
He felt a wave of comfort, of relaxation, of the pure bliss that only one thing provided these days. He took a few more bites of his burger and a couple of chips to get rid of the smell on his breath, lest his deceit be ruined.  
Sam showed up and stood over him, “Ready to go?”  
Dean glanced up like he hadn’t realised he was there.  
“Sure.”  
Sam didn’t help him, probably trying not to cause Dean any further embarrassment, but when he got to his feet he swayed, the shots hitting him quick.   
“Whoa, you okay?” Sam grabbed him to stop him toppling over.  
“Urgh,” Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.  
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Sam’s hand was on his lower back and he treasured the warmth it exuded.   
The hostess was there as they left.  
“Have a good night, fellas,” she grinned, then leaned in close to Dean, “Let me know when you’re fighting ready. I like to play rough,” she winked, handing him her number scrawled on the back of a paper coaster.  
“I’ll put you on speed dial,” Dean said, lifting his eyebrows and smirking.   
Sam rolled his eyes.  
“Still got it, Sammy,” he grinned as they walked side by side to the car.  
But he tucked the number in his pocket and balled his hand into a fist. Because he wouldn’t call her. He wasn’t good enough. 

…

Dean woke the next day sweaty and trembling. He rolled onto his back and gently pulled the sleeve up on his left arm, staring at the warped skin in the shape of a handprint. He thought about Castiel, and why in hell had he deserved it.  
 _You don’t think you deserve to be saved._  
He stared up at the ceiling, tried not to imagine bodies pinned there, on fire. This is why he had to keep moving, keep hunting, keep busy. Because he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts. Not like this.   
He sniffled, willing away the itch. He didn’t want to sneeze and alert Sam that he was awake. He could hear the kid in the kitchen, cursing at himself as he tried to cook breakfast it sounded like.   
Dean could hear the birds outside. His window was open. A neighbourhood dog barked. Dean didn’t like it. He was made for hunting. But maybe, in time he thought, maybe he would.   
He decided he wasn’t going to sleep again. He’d slept enough this week for the rest of his life. Sleeping was for losers, and time wasters, and people that hadn’t been to hell. The taste of thick, coppery infection was heavy on his tongue, and was almost too similar to the taste of blood. He coughed quietly. His cough was clearing up. Less desperate and rattly.   
He wondered when the angels would find them. Why they hadn’t come knocking already. Why Cas hadn’t appeared to him in a dream yet, or just popped into the room unannounced. Maybe they knew he was a write-off, that he was no good to anyone anymore, no good to the world. Done his dash. 

…

Sam had his laptop open on the kitchen bench with a recipe on how to cook an omelette. He was determined to make this morning stress-free and maybe even enjoyable for his brother. Today was the day he went to get an MRI, which shouldn’t have been a big deal. It was just a scan. But it was also confinement, in a long metal tube, with no room to move, and a brother who had post traumatic stress.   
He didn’t even know if his brother liked omelettes. He’d never seen him order one. Maybe if he cut up bacon and put it in it…  
Sam continued his work on breakfast as he heard Dean stir in the bedroom. He knew he was awake. He’d been listening to his brother his whole life. He could tell from the lack of whimpering and sobs that he’d woken up from whatever dream he was in the midst of. He heard some muffled coughing and thought how it sounded like it was getting better. And at least that was something. 

…

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest so hard it felt like it would break ribs. He didn’t know why he was panicking so much. His breathing sawed in and out, quickly, hyperventilating.  
“You awake, Dean?” Sam popped his head in the room.  
His hands were cold and clammy. His throat tightening so he couldn’t answer.  
“Hey, you okay?” Sam was next to him now, big hand on his chest.   
Dean slammed his eyes closed.  
“Just breathe, Dean… Just breathe…”  
Dean got to the point where his body couldn’t sustain the attack anymore and he started to cough. Sam rolled him onto his side so he could breathe, as he hacked. His heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He was left feeling shaky and sick. Exhausted.   
“What the hell was that?” he gasped.  
“I think you were having a panic attack,” Sam supplied, rubbing a palm up and down his back.  
“It friggen _sucked_ ,” Dean closed his eyes. _You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay._  
“Just relax for a minute… I made you breakfast.”  
Dean smiled weakly, “Thanks, Sammy.”

…

From there the morning was okay. Not terrible, not great, but okay. Dean had liked the omelette, and the bits of bacon throughout it. He’d made jokes about Sam and cooking, laughed even, like he was almost the Dean he used to be. But Sam knew deep down that _that_ Dean was gone. Hell changes man.   
Sam offered for them to go out for burgers after the scan as a sort of reward but Dean’s smile drooped slightly at the mention of it. So he didn’t say anything about it again.   
Dean dressed himself, showered himself, did his hair himself, and didn’t once ask for help.   
They rode in the car with Metallica blaring, and didn’t say a single word.  
Dean got irrationally angry while filling out the form, said the questions were stupid, and no one needed to know that much about him, and who were these people, the real FBI? Sam quieted him and politely smiled at the other waiting patients, and the reception staff. He also apologised to them when Dean slammed the clipboard down on the counter and huffed off to go and sit in the corner.   
It was then that Sam’s phone rang.   
_“Sam? I’m at the house and no one’s home.”_  
“Hey, Bobby, we weren’t expecting you till tonight?” Sam uttered quietly, waving a hand at Dean and stepping outside.  
 _“Yeah, well, I shagged ass.”_  
Sam smiled, “Thanks, Bobby. We’re at the scan clinic. Dean’s about to have his MRI. Would be great if you could meet us here. I don’t think Dean’s going to take it well…”  
 _“’Course, Sam. Shoot me the address. I’ll be there in about an hour. I gotta get some food in me before I drop.”_  
“Fair enough. I’ll text it to you. See you soon.”  
He went back inside and started approaching his brother.  
“Dean Walker.”  
Sam watched his brother’s head go up at the sound of his fake name, and saw the look of shear terror at what was about to happen. It almost broke Sam’s heart.

…

"Okay, Dean. I'm going to give you these ear plugs because it can be quite noisy in there."  
"Okay," Dean said, sweat on his upper lip.   
"It's going to feel like you have no space but I assure you it's fine and perfectly safe. I'm going to give you this button to hold on to. Anything goes wrong, you start to feel overwhelmed, just press it and I'll bring you out. It's about 20 minutes in there. There's an intercom so you can hear me and your brother speak to you, but we can't hear you, okay? So if you need to come out, just press the button. Try and stay still."  
Dean nodded, mouth dry, "Alright, doc. Let's get it over with," he tried to smile.   
Dean closed his eyes before he started going in. He figured if he couldn't see how trapped he was, he wouldn't freak out.   
“You okay in there, Dean?”  
“Super,” he shouted back, not knowing how loud he was talking.   
“See you in 20 minutes,” she said and Dean heard the door open and close. And he was alone.  
“Okay, Dean. We’re about to start the first set of images. Try to stay still and press the button at any time and we can stop,” a voice came from somewhere above him, loud enough to hear through the ear plugs.  
“I’m right here, Dean,” he heard Sam’s voice, “It’ll be over soon.”   
“Yeah, thanks for that, Sammy. I feel awesome, so much better now,” he grumbled sarcastically.   
“The machine is going to make some clunking noises as it warms up and then it’s going to be quite loud. It’s all normal, so don’t worry. Starting now.”  
Dean could feel his own breath blowing back in his face so he knew how close it was pressed around him. He gripped the button tight, without pressing the top, just holding it close in case he needed it. He wouldn’t press it though. He wouldn’t have to go through this again.   
The noise came, loud in his ears, despite the plugs, and the songs he was humming. He clenched his eyes shut and wiggled his toes, pursing his lips. Lying on his back he could feel the snot run down his throat and he prayed to whatever the hell was out there that he wouldn’t have a coughing fit right now. Not when he was so… confined.  
He’d been in a while now. He thought things were going well. He thought he was handling it. And then he did something wrong... He opened his eyes.  
He took a massive inhale, gasping at the shock of how little space he had. He swallowed over a cough and his chest began heaving up and down. Heart pounding, hands tingling.   
“Oh, shit, oh, shit,” he breathed, clenching his eyes shut again, but it was too late. Now he knew.  
He was in his coffin again. The blackness. The dust. The smell of rotting bodies, of _his own_ rotting body. The feeling of hard, sharp wood against his fists. Splinters in his hands. Blood under his nails. Scratching. Clawing. _Screaming._  
“Almost done, Dean. Almost done.”  
 _Sammy._  
He couldn’t move. Frozen in fear. He was dying, again. **Loser.**  
“Dean, we’re bringing you out now. Just hold on.”  
He felt himself moving, opened his eyes again and saw the tunnel he was in. As soon as he was out he sat up, winced and cried out as he moved his arm. Sweating, panting.  
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam was at his side, hands on him, but he was numb, “You did good. We got the images, Dean. It’s over… It’s over.”  
Dean swung around off the table, two voices talking at him but he couldn’t focus on them.  
He calmed his breathing but his heart continued to pound in his chest as he silently followed Sam back to the change room to get out of the stupid gown and back into his clothes.  
“Do you need help?”  
“No,” he said, closing the door in Sam’s face.   
Sam was still standing there when he came out, shirt buttoned wrong, sling with only one of the three straps done up, probably his fly open too but he didn’t dare check. He stumbled as he pushed past Sam.  
“Whoa, Dean. Where are you going? We have to pay first,” Sam said, as Dean stalked away, back to the waiting room, back out the door.   
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t… He was so afraid, so useless, in so much pain, and this was the last thing he could take. Everything was bubbling to the surface. His foundation cracking. The walls crumbling to the ground. The dam breaking.   
“Dean?”  
Dean spun around and saw Bobby in the parking lot, walking quickly towards him.   
Dean stared at his bearded, concerned face as he got closer and closer, now standing in front of him, brow furrowed, eyes wide, mouth turned down.  
“Oh, Dean…” he sighed, and put a hand on his face.  
Dean clutched at Bobby’s grimy vest and felt the arms wrap around him. He buried his face in his shoulder. All the things he had inside, all the things he tried so hard not to feel, everything he wanted to just go away, and feeling so small in the arms of the man that should have been his father… And he broke.

…


	10. Chapter 10

Dean struggled to breathe. Trying so hard to stop the tears that kept streaming from his face. It was like the time he’d told Sam what really happened in hell. All of this weight had been crushing in on him, and he’d tried to build his own walls to keep it all back, but all at once that had failed. And he was drowning. Now. Again.   
His hand wrapped in Bobby’s vest, face in he crook of his neck, smelling his cologne mixed with whiskey and old books. He was always weaker with Bobby. No one to hide from anymore. Sam he had to be brave for. Sam he had to watch out for. Bobby… Bobby looked out for him.  
“It’s okay, boy. I got you,” Bobby muttered, arms tight around him, not letting him go even though Dean knew his nose was running all over him.   
“Bobby…” Dean breathed in through the sobs.  
“Shh, Dean. It’s all right… You’re gonna be alright.”

…

Sam let his brother go, sensing his urgent need to escape. He went to the reception counter to pay the bill. Upwards of five hundred dollars. _Geez_. This was just the start… and they could barely even afford that.   
Sam stopped cold dead in the doorway.  
Bobby had a hand around Dean’s waist, the other on the back of his neck, pulling him in close. Dean’s hand was clasping at the material of Bobby’s vest, his whole body shaking, racking as he sobbed silently into Bobby’s shoulder. Sam’s face tensed at the sight. Him coming in now, while Dean was so vulnerable, would be the worst thing he could do. Dean would react on fight or flight response… and Dean’s response was always fight. So, he let them be, trusting Bobby could handle it. 

…

“Bobby… I can’t…” he set his jaw, pulled his face away so he could look at him, “I need some help.”  
Bobby’s hand wrapped around his jawline, thumb reaching round to the other side of his face, “I know, son.”  
The tears in Bobby’s eyes made things worse. He didn’t want anyone to worry about him. But at the same time, he loved it that someone did.   
Bobby removed his hand, and started undoing buttons on Dean’s shirt, buttoning him up the right way. He gave his shirt a little tug, just to bring them closer together.   
Dean sniffed hard and ran a hand down his face, wiping away most of the tears but leaving a mess still remaining. Bobby started on his sling next, buckling it up for him. Then he glanced down at his crotch.  
He looked at Dean, “You’re on your own there. I ain’t touching that one,” Bobby smirked.  
Dean felt a smile naturally tug at his lips, and even that was exhausting. He reached his good hand down and tugged up his fly.  
“Alright, come on, son. I’ll drive you back to the house,” Bobby put a hand on Dean’s good shoulder.  
Dean started to glance back to see where Sam was but Bobby steered him towards the car.  
“Sam can handle that, boy.”  
Dean stuffed his hand in his pocket and allowed Bobby to direct him towards his car. Besides, he didn’t want Sam too have to see him like this.

…

Dean stared out the window sniffling quietly.   
Bobby turned the radio on and let ‘The Gambler’ play, just so Dean could sniffle as loudly as he liked.

…

Sam watched Bobby shepherd Dean into his car and drive off towards the house. He let out a breath. He knew things were bad. He knew Dean was hanging on by a thread. He’d grown complacent waiting for it to break. He wasn’t ready for it to happen now. It wasn’t going to be easy, for him, or Bobby, least of all Dean.   
Sam took his time getting home. He stopped in at a supermarket for a cheap toaster, a few washcloths, and some reusable ice packs. There had to be other things he was forgetting, but they were tight on cash, their phony credit cards almost maxed. And he didn’t know how much more Dean would need to get him through this. His medications alone were costing an arm and a leg.  
He drove twice around the block before pulling into the garage, Bobby’s car parked on the street in front of the house.  
Sam opened the front door, bags hanging off his wrists.  
“Hey, Bobby,” he smiled, dumping his purchases, and the large envelop containing Dean’s MRI images on the kitchen counter.  
Bobby turned from the stove to give Sam a hug.  
“How you doing, boy?” he asked, turning back to stir the pot on the hotplate.   
Sam sighed, “Been better. What’re you making?”  
“Chili,” Bobby said over his shoulder.  
Sam raised an eyebrow, “We had enough stuff for that?”  
“I improvised,” Bobby grinned, “Your neighbour’s awful nice.”  
“Maxine?” Sam said, “Yeah, we were lucky… Where’s Dean?”  
Bobby tilted his head in the direction of the hallway, “He’s passed out. Got him to take his meds and a shower.”  
Sam smiled, looking down, “Bobby, is he, uh… is he…”  
“He’ll be okay, Sam. I know it looks pretty bad now. But this is Dean we’re talking about.”  
“I don’t know, Bobby. This time it’s different,” Sam closed his eyes, and blew out a breath, leaning heavily on the counter, “I feel like I’m losing him.”  
“Sam,” Bobby took the pot off the heat, turning off the stove, and turned to face him, his hand landing on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing tight, “Just give him some time to adjust. He’s got a lot going on.”  
Sam nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair.  
“When was the last time you slept, boy?”  
Sam shook his head, “I’m fine.”  
Bobby raised an eyebrow, “Bull… You’re wound so tight you’re about to snap, or fall in a heap. Take your pick.”  
Sam hung his head, felt Bobby’s hand dig into his shoulder, massaging away the knots of worry.  
And right on schedule...  
"HELP! HELP ME!"  
Sam and Bobby raced into Dean's room. His head was whipping back and forth against the pillow.   
Sam went to his side.   
"Dean! Dean, wake up. It's okay..."  
Dean was panting, eyes clamped shut like he was afraid to open them.   
Sam's hand stroked Dean's sweaty forehead, pushing back his damp hair.   
"Oh, Jesus. He's got a fever again..."  
"S'mmy?"  
"Hey, Dean? You awake?"  
"Bobby?" He asked, voice grating like his throat was dry.   
"I'm right here, son."  
The corner of Dean's mouth turned up and his breathing evened out. And he was asleep again.  
Sam pinched the bridge on his nose, holding onto his brother’s forearm to let him know he was still there.  
“Alright,” Bobby blew out a breath, “Bed time for you, kid.”  
Sam shook his head, “Someone’s gotta watch him.”  
“What am I? A piece of furniture?” Bobby grumbled, looking offended, “I wasn’t asking you. Go get some sleep. I’ll handle this.”  
Sam stood up, arching his back in a stretch, “Don’t suppose there’s enough chili for me?” he smirked.  
Bobby smiled, “Sure there is. Bring us a bowl in here and I’ll get Dean to have some dinner.”  
“Okay,” Sam said. He paused at the doorway, holding onto the doorframe and looking at a very interesting spot on the wall, “Thanks, Bobby.”  
“… Don’t mention it.”

…

“Dean? Come on, son. I made your favourite, so you better wake up and have some.”  
Dean’s head pounded, his nose was stuffed up, and his chest felt heavy. He was hot and cold, and sore and numb. Mostly his eyes stung, and his lips were cracked and dry, in the aftermath of his breakdown.   
“Aw, come on. You used to love my chili.”  
Bobby was chattering in his ear and he wanted to open his eyes but he was in that empty void between sleep and consciousness and he couldn’t even move his eyelids enough to open them.   
“Dean.”  
He drew enough energy from somewhere to moan.  
“There he is. Come on, boy.”  
Dean’s eyes flitted open and Bobby’s scruffy face came into view. Dean reached his right hand up to rub at his eyes with the back of his hand.  
“Ain’t that a face to wake up to.”  
“Shut up, idgit,” Bobby said, lightly.  
Why was he sleeping anyway? He though he swore off sleep…  
“Time for dinner. Then you can go back to sleep,” Bobby said.  
“I’m not eating in bed,” Dean grumbled.  
“Why not?”  
“’Cause I’m not a cripple,” Dean bit, trying to heave himself up, “Give me a hand.”  
Bobby helped Dean to sit on the edge of his bed.  
“How did this get so bad, Dean?”  
“It was always this bad,” Dean grumbled, coughing against his fist.  
“It was this bad when it first happened, when I had you hobbling around my place for 3 months. I thought things got better. You haven’t mentioned it in years.”  
“Just getting old,” Dean shrugged.  
“Naw, that ain’t it…”  
Bobby stared at Dean in silence, and Dean was too tired to fight.  
“I got thrown,” Dean sighed, defeated.  
Bobby furrowed his brow, “By what?”  
“Does it matter?” Dean looked up at him, “Stirred things up. But, uh, it’s been getting worse for a while now… I let my guard down, gave the vamp the jump on me. That’s how this happened,” he gestured to his shoulder.   
Bobby shook his head.  
“You didn’t… tell Sam, did you? About the accident?”  
“No, Dean, I didn’t say nothin’. It’s not doing either of you any good keeping it from him though.”  
“He doesn’t need to know, Bobby. Trust me. It’s better for everyone…”  
“Whatever you say, son. But you’re shouldering a lot on your own here. Sam and I are here for you. Whatever you need.”  
Dean squinted at Bobby, “We done sharing and caring?”  
Bobby laughed, “Yeah, ya idgit.”  
“Alright, cause I can smell chili that’s yet to be eaten.”

…

Dean sneezed his was through dinner, the crying from earlier shifting something loose in his sinuses. _That_ combined with the spice from the chili and he was off and running.   
“Ya alright, boy?” Bobby asked, hand on Dean’s shoulder, as he hunched into a tissue, sneezing for the eighth time.  
Dean sniffed, “Yeah… giving me a headache though.”  
“You almost finished?” Bobby leaned over to check his bowl.  
There was still about half left, “Yeah, maybe. Not feeling so hot.”  
Dean crumpled forward into the tissue again.  
“Alright, come on, sneezy. Back to bed.”

…

Sam woke and it was dark outside, his phone clock reading close to 2am. He rubbed his face and got up to check on Dean.  
He popped his head in the room and saw Bobby passed out with his chin to his chest, slumped in the armchair by Dean’s bed. He was snoring lightly.  
Dean… Dean wasn’t in his bed.  
Sam saw there was no one in the bathroom and headed out to the lounge. Not there. Not in the kitchen either.  
Sam sighed, knowing where Dean would be and made for the front door. The garage door was open and he’d closed it when he’d got home yesterday.  
Dean startled when Sam came in, almost choking on the mouthful of Johnny Walker he just tipped into his mouth.   
"Where'd you get that from?" Sam gestured to the bottle Dean held in his hand.   
"Uh," Dean cleared his throat, "Bobby's pack."  
"You ask first?" Sam said.   
"It's Bobby," Dean shrugged, lifting the bottle to take another swig. Meaning no.   
Dean was probably waiting for the onslaught but Sam didn't rise to the bait. What could he do?   
He looked surprised when Sam leaned up on the workbench next to him, but he took another drink. Sam noticed his hand shaking like a leaf and it must have registered on his face because Dean lowered the bottle to his hip, so it wasn't directly in Sam's eye line.   
“You’re not supposed to…” Sam pointed to the still shaking bottle.  
Dean cleared his throat, “I know.”  
He brought the bottle to his lips again, as if in defiance, gulping down a shot and a half.  
“Look, what happened today…”  
“I don’t wanna talk about it, Sam… I can’t,” he shook his head, licking his bottom lip then drawing it into his mouth with his teeth.  
Sam wondered how long it would take for Dean to rebuild his walls. The walls he used to hide behind.  
“Okay… But I’m here for you when you do.”  
Dean smirked, “You two are as bad as each other.”  
Sam smiled, looked down at his feet, “How’re you feeling?”  
Dean cleared his throat again, coughed a little through closed lips, “Maybe you should stop asking that.”  
Sam frowned, “Dean…”  
“Relax, Sam. Just a little sore. Had to get up and move around.”  
"You can have Tylenol," Sam offered.   
Dean grinned but his eyes didn't get the memo.   
"Sammy, Tylenol hasn't worked in 3 years."  
"It might not touch your pain, but it'll ease your fever back. That'll make it easier to sleep."  
Dean smirked but it was a sad smirk, a smirk that said 'Sammy, you don't understand’ was playing in his head.  
“Just come back inside. I need to get some sleep and I can’t do that knowing you’re freezing your ass off out here.”  
 _Playing the little brother card._  
“Fine, ya giant baby.”  
 _Works every time._

…

Unfortunately when Dean was back in bed he coughed, and coughed, and coughed, waking Bobby, keeping Sam up, breaking a sweat. Until eventually Sam came in and wordlessly set up his nebuliser, handing him the mask with a long suffering look and heading back to his bedroom. Bobby smiled and shuffled down in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him.  
“You know this place has four bedrooms, right?” Dean rasped, taking the mask off to talk.  
“Mmhm,” Bobby groaned, his eyes closed, “Now put that mask back on, before I slap you upside your head.”

…

Dean dreamed of coffins, and dirt, and knives, and hooks, and the blackness, and the screams, and the blood in his throat.   
When he woke Bobby was still in the chair. He could hear Sam in the kitchen. There was no darkness and no screams, and no blood in his throat.  
And he should have felt grateful… but he didn’t feel a thing.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam sat at the breakfast bar with the envelope containing Dean’s MRI images in front of him. It was sealed with a little sticker that said _‘To be opened by the referring doctor’._ Sam’s thumb ran across it. He didn’t know how to read an MRI anyway. Surely, it would just be lines and squiggles and shapes he couldn’t understand. But then he and Dean had had their share of x-rays and CT scans. Broken ribs, concussions, _etc. etc. etc._ He had an idea of anatomy. And the rest he could figure out. He’d called the doctor as soon as they’d opened to make Dean another appointment to have his scan reviewed. He wasn’t so lucky this time. Dean couldn’t get in to see him for another week. A week before they knew what was really wrong. _A week._  
So… Sam had 7 days to figure out how to read an MRI.  
He opened the envelope and pulled out one of the sheets of film, holding it up in front of the window. It was a sagittal view of Dean’s lower back.   
“Jesus,” Sam inhaled, feeling his chest tighten.   
He wasn’t a doctor, but the issue seemed to be obvious.  
“What are you doing?”  
Sam spun around, trying in vain to hide the image behind his leg.  
Dean’s voice was harsh, gruff, and his brow was intensely furrowed.  
“Nothing, I was just… Where’s Bobby?”  
“He’s sleeping in a chair. What are you doing?” Dean took a few more steps towards him, bare feet padding on the polished timber floors.  
“I was just going to see if I could… read them.”  
Dean’s eyebrow went up.  
“But, you know, man, we should just wait for the doctor to look them over,” Sam began stuffing the film back into the envelope.  
“Well, let me see,” Dean reached his hand out, stepping closer again.  
“No, Dean, I think we should wait…”  
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean’s eyes were greener than usual, the whites reddened from pain and sickness, and they were wide, Dean’s version of angry. Which Sam knew just meant he was scared.   
“Nothing,” Sam forced a small smile, “It’s just squiggles to me. We’ll wait until the doctor can take a look. I got you in next week.”  
“ _Fantastic,_ ” Dean said, to Sam’s relief, dropping it.   
He leant over the kitchen counter like he was trying to stretch his lower back, and came to rest on his right elbow. He sucked a breath in, only to cough it out, briefly rattly but clearer towards the end. He sniffed and closed his eyes, like he was collecting himself.   
Sam ran a hand across his chin, trying to calm how fast his heart had been beating, at first from seeing the state of Dean’s spine, and second from Dean catching him red handed.   
Dean blew out a long breath.  
Sam got himself together.  
“Hey, sit down. What do you want for breakfast?” Sam pulled out the barstool for Dean to sit down in.  
Dean looked sideways at the chair and straightened.  
“I can stand.”  
So, it was gonna be one of _those_ days.  
“You want toast? New toaster,” Sam beamed, nodding towards the box on the counter.  
Dean gave a weak attempt at a sideways smile, “Not that hungry, Sammy.”  
Sam furrowed his brow, “You need to have something to eat before you have your medication.”  
“In that case, I’m starving,” Dean grinned, obviously growing tired of the charade and slumping into the barstool.   
He coughed again, wetter this time.  
Sam glanced at him as he unboxed the new toaster, “That cough still bugging you, huh.”  
“What gave it away?”  
Gee, Dean was in fine form today. This was going to be fun.  
Sam set the toaster on the bench and started grabbing the bread, deciding to ignore Dean when he was like this. He sighed when he heard Dean stifle a sneeze, snuffling quietly behind him. It wasn’t Dean’s fault he felt like crap, and that’s why he was acting like such a jerk.   
“Mornin’, boys,” Sam turned to see Bobby stumbling in, rubbing his neck and turning his head every which way.  
“Mornin’, Bobby,” Sam said, grabbing a couple more pieces of bread out.  
“Sit down, Sam. I’ll do that,” Bobby pushed his way into the kitchen, grabbing the carton of eggs out of the fridge.  
“Thanks,” Sam smiled, allowing Bobby to take over.  
Dean got up off his stool and stumbled, clutching the kitchen bench.  
“Whoa, you alright, Dean?” Sam said, coming to his side.  
“Quit hovering,” Dean growled, “and help me get this damn thing off so I can take a shower.”  
“Breakfast’ll be ready in a minute, Dean,” Bobby said.  
Dean grunted, “Just put mine in the oven. I’ll have it later.”  
Sam gave Bobby a look, as he stood behind Dean and unclipped his sling. Bobby quirked an eyebrow quickly in acknowledgment and went back to cooking breakfast.   
Sam pretended not to notice the sweat on the back of Dean’s neck, or the way he flinched when he touched him, or the low, almost silent, moan he made when the sling was gently removed.   
Dean flexed his hand as he lowered the arm to his side, gripping his bicep with his right. He looked down at the bottles and packets of pills on the counter.  
“Which ones I gotta take with food?” he asked, as if he didn’t care, when Sam knew he was barely holding it together.  
“This one, and the antibiotic,” Sam pointed to the boxes.  
“That’s the good one, right?” Dean picked up one of the other packets, with a ‘warning-do not operate heavy machinery’ on it.  
“Yeah, that one’s for the pain.”  
Dean tried to open the packet with one hand until Sam had had enough watching him struggle and took it from him, popping one out of the blister pack.   
Dean dry swallowed it and coughed, holding his arm close to his chest.   
“Dean, why don’t you just sit on your ass and wait for that to work. Then you can have some breakfast and the rest o’ your drugs,” Bobby offered, gently.  
Dean closed his eyes, a bead of sweat carving a line from his temple to his jaw.  
He cleared his throat, “Fine.”

…

Dean’s shoulder burned furiously. It felt twice the size, swollen, hot and throbbing in time with his too quick heartbeat. He wanted to ask for ice, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the coddling today. He was in a bad mood, all right? And he was allowed to be in a bad mood, dammit. He wished his responses didn’t leave his mouth so quickly, so curtly, so cutting. He wasn’t exactly pissed at Sam and Bobby. He didn’t have a reason to be. And yet he was, because he was friggen sore, and friggen sick, and friggen tired, and friggen _empty._  
He accidently let a high-pitched whimper escape as he sat back against the lounge. He didn’t even look towards the kitchen, hoping they hadn’t heard the small cry.  
He had 20 minutes before this wonder pill kicked in. 20 unbearable minutes of pain. He gulped and thought about the hook piercing through his shoulder, stringing him up in the void, as if trapped in a giant spiders web. Ripping through skin, muscle, tendons, shattering bones. Tugging and tearing. Wishing he could pass out from the pain but remaining endlessly alert. Just so he could experience every bit of it.  
“Dean!”  
Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, face full of worry.  
“Huh?” Dean’s mouth was dry, throat gravelly.   
“You with us?”  
Dean found strength to nod, wondering how a chunk of time was some how missing.   
He cleared his throat, “Yeah, where else would I be,” his eyes flitted from side to side.  
“Hell?” Sam asked.  
Dean’s eyes filled up, “Don’t.”  
“That’s what happened, wasn’t it? You were having some kind of flash back? It’s not the first time it’s happened, Dean…”  
“Sammy, I, uh…” Dean looked down, sucked on his bottom lip, “I can’t talk about that.”  
“Dean… I want to make this better for you. We both do,” he indicated to Bobby, who was standing over his shoulder.   
“How?” Dean squeaked out, “How could you _possibly_ make this better?”  
“Dean, I’m trying –“  
“No, Sammy… I’m sick, alright? I’m tired. Stop trying to fix me… You can’t _fix_ everything.”  
Dramatic storm outs worked more effectively when you could quickly get out of a chair.   
Sam’s gentle hand was enough to push him back down.  
“I can try.”

…

Sam heard retching from Dean’s bathroom, followed by a toilet flush. He sat on the edge of his bed, google searching how to read an MRI, and what to look for. He tapped his foot impatiently. The more he read what a normal MRI looked like, the more concerned he grew, as Dean’s certainly didn’t look like those. Bobby had gone out shopping, apparently they were lacking in essentials. Sam had offered him one of the credit cards, saying there should be enough on that one for a few things. Bobby shook his head and said he had it under control. And Sam was glad someone did. He sighed when he heard Dean throwing up, again. The gags were desperate, choking, and set him off coughing more than once. Sam hadn’t gone to see if he was okay. Dean had been pretty evasive all day, snapping at both him and Bobby whenever they came near him. But Dean was like that. He got angry from time to time, and usually irrationally so. But Sam figured this time he had a reason to be angry. It would pass, as always. Sam was more worried about what he’d be left with when it did.   
The toilet flushed once again and Sam heard the running of a tap before the sound of the door clicking open.  
He waited, looking up from his laptop, for Dean to walk past his bedroom. Dean was loud these days, heavy in his steps, stumbling, halting. His breath rattled as he breathed quickly, shallowly. It was a while before he past in front of Sam’s room. Sam sat up straighter.  
Dean was _grey_. His face slick with sweat. Red-rimmed, sunken eyes, glassy and fiercely green.  
“You okay?” Sam asked, watching Dean sway as his gripped the doorframe.   
“Yeah,” he grumbled, clearing his throat, “Pills make me nauseous,” he swiped a hand across his brow.  
“Maybe you should lie down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”  
“’M fine,” Dean muttered, swallowing.  
“Oh, you’re no where near fine…”  
Dean looked like he was going to fight back… and then he threw up all over himself.

…


	12. Chapter 12

Dean hit his knees and began to list to the side, and, dammit, if he landed on that left shoulder Sam would be dealing with more than just nauseous Dean. Sam raced to his brother and guided him back onto his lap, cradling his torso and head as Dean crumpled in a heap. Sam tried to avoid the sick on Dean’s shirt.  
“You’re fine, huh?”  
Dean glared up at Sam, then swallowed convulsively. Sam tilted Dean to the side and he threw up again, on the floor.  
“Don’ feel good, S’mmy…” Dean moaned, coughing.  
“Yeah, I know, man.”  
Sam ran his hand over Dean’s forehead and cheek. He was warm, sure, but he wasn’t burning up.  
“Think I need to call the doctor out?” Sam asked his limp brother.  
Dean didn’t respond, eyes rolling back in his head.  
“Dean, Dean, Dean! Hey!”  
Dean’s eyes sprung back open.  
“Stay awake, Dean. I know you feel sick, but stay awake. I gotta get you cleaned up.”  
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Bobby, while Dean turned and threw up again, coughing up strings of yellow bile.  
Sam braced a hand on Dean’s chest, rubbing up and down the line of his sternum, feeling the desperate inhales, and racing heart beneath his hand.  
_“Hey, Sam.”_  
“Bobby! I need you to come home. Dean’s sick.”  
_“I’m jumping in the car now, son. What’s wrong?”_  
“Just hurry. I might need you to help me lift him.”  
Sam hung up the phone as Bobby continued to bark in his ear. Okay, he probably shouldn’t have left it at that, but Dean was growing heavier on his lap and he needed to try and get him to a bed before he was completely out for the count.  
“Dean, hey. With me?” he said, tapping his cheek.  
Dean looked at Sam for a long time through half shut eyes, as if trying to work out who it was talking to him.  
“Sammy.”  
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Sammy. Come on,” Sam tried to hoist him up, but Dean didn’t seem to want to move.  
“Help me out,” Sam said, through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to hurt Dean more than he already was.  
“’M good, here…” Dean mumbled, “Leave me alone.”  
Sam threw his head back, “Why do you have to be such a jerk? I’m trying to help you. You can’t stay on the floor.”  
“Get off me,” Dean began to bat at Sam’s hands.  
“Jesus, Dean!”  
Sam closed his eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath.  
_It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault._  
“Dizzy, Sam… Can’t get up.”  
Sam felt a pang of guilt. Dean’s medication made him dizzy. He was too dizzy to get up. That’s why he was feeling so sick.  
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Sam muttered, lying Dean down on the ground, “We’ll just wait, okay? We’ll wait till you can get up. Let me clean you up.”  
Dean wasn’t wearing his sling, which was probably a blessing because the damn thing was expensive and Sam didn’t want to have to wash vomit out of it. He unbuttoned Dean’s shirt, before realizing he probably wouldn’t be able to get it off around his shoulders. _Okay_ , one thing at a time.  
Dean eyes were closed but Sam could tell he wasn’t unconscious, because they weren’t gently closed, they were slammed shut.  
“Dean, I’m just gonna grab a towel. I’ll be right back.”  
Dean moaned and Sam took that as a sign he understood.  
Sam cleaned up the floor around Dean, grabbing a pillow from his bed and sliding it under Dean’s head. He grabbed the trashcan from his room just in case Dean got dizzy again. He still couldn’t take Dean’s shirt off so he just folded it on itself for the meantime. There wasn’t much on it anyway.  
“Feel better?” Sam asked, sitting on the floor next to Dean, watching his bare chest heave up and down.  
Dean opened his eyes to look at Sam and closed them again quickly.  
“Whoa, bad idea,” he groaned.  
“It’ll pass, man. It’ll just take a little time.”  
“At least it doesn’t hurt so bad,” Dean chuckled.  
“Yeah… but it’s not doing your back any good lying on the ground. You ready to move yet?”  
Dean shook his head slightly.  
“Gonna throw up?” Sam asked, moving the trashcan closer.  
“No,” Dean breathed.  
Sam sighed, “You can’t wait a week for this doctor…”  
“What does it matter, Sam?” Dean paused to cough, “I’m useless now anyway…”  
“No, you’re not. Shut up,” Sam bit back. Dean saying crap like that pissed him off, because Dean was the person he looked up to, who he saw as indestructible, and if _he_ was useless, what did that make Sam?

…

Bobby arrived and helped Sam get him up, shirt off, and onto the couch, because Dean didn’t want to go to bed during the day, because that might imply that he was sick or something. _Jerk._  
Once he did get through the worst of the dizziness, though, he looked much better. Less grey, more white… well, it was an improvement.  
“What you buy me?” Dean croaked, craning his neck to look at Bobby and Sam lugging groceries and other assorted items through the front door.  
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bobby chuckled.  
“Seriously, what _did_ you buy?” Sam asked, placing the bags on the ground, “There’s a lot of stuff here.”  
“Well, you boys have never had a permanent address. And if I’m gonna be spending some time here, I’d like more than one pot and one spoon to cook with.”  
Sam rolled his eyes.  
“So, boring stuff,” Dean huffed, lying back down. His handprint scar looked redder today, maybe because his whole shoulder was red, mottled with yellow and green bruises.  
“Boring, huh. I guess I’ll just take the DVD player back…”  
Dean’s eyes grew wide and he looked over, “Seriously?”  
Sam’s facial expression probably mirrored Dean’s. He’d never really had anything like that. He was used to watching crappy soap operas and porn, with awful quality, on a 12 inch screen. This place had a TV, a big TV from what they were used to, and now they had a DVD player too?  
Sam sighed sadly, “That’s awesome, Bobby, but we don’t have any movies.”  
“Yeah, well, I thought so. I picked you up a couple.”  
Sam felt his face go red.  
“Bobby you didn’t have to…”  
“Sure, I did. Ain’t no trouble at all.”  
“Yeah, he wanted to do it, Sam. Come on,” Dean added, earning another chuckle from the older man.  
“Why don’t you set the thing up, Sam, while I fix us some lunch.”  
“Should’a had you come round sooner,” Dean grinned.  
“Well someone had to take out that werewolf pack.”  
Bobby had said it flippantly, and it was too late then to take it back. Dean’s face hardened. Without his shirt on Sam could see all the muscles in his chest and shoulders stiffen. Bobby’s face grew dark, knowing what he’d done. Dean hated this. He hated lying around all day.  
_“What’s it matter? I’m useless now anyway…”_  
Dean was built to hunt. It had been engrained in him since the day he carried Sam out of their burning house. And now he was here. Like this.  
Dean pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the lounge.  
“Dean…”  
“I’m, uh… I’m just gonna get a shirt and go for a drive.”  
“Dean, you can’t drive…”  
Dean stood up, solid, and walked down the hall to his room.  
“Sam, I didn’t mean…”  
“No, it’s not your fault, Bobby.”  
Dean came back out wearing a t-shirt. Still no sling. Sam didn’t know how he’d got the thing over his head by himself, but his pain pills were pretty effective, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt later for it though.  
“Keys,” he demanded.  
“Dean.”  
“ _Keys_ , Sam,” Dean held out his hand and Sam reluctantly pulled them from his pocket and handed them to his brother.  
“Dean, come on, son. Sam’s about to set the DVD player up.”  
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Dean grumbled, as he shut walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.

…

Dean’s right hand gripped the steering wheel. He’d realized it was a mistake after he’d had to back the impala out of the garage with one hand. Baby was a big girl and wasn’t always the easiest at turning around. Still, he’d needed to get out, get away. It was bad enough how much he hurt. It was bad enough living tortured and tormented by nightmares and flashbacks of hell. _That_ was bad enough. Hunting was his saving grace. Saving people. Doing something to try and erase all the things he’d done downstairs, how much pain he’d inflicted on others. It didn’t wipe it out, not at all, nothing ever could, but it eased the burden, took the bite out of the sting. Now he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t even do what God had pulled him out of the pit to do. He was a failure. Useless. And he’d never be what he used to be. He’d never climb out of this hole he was drowning in. _Never._  
So he thought, hey, drown away, and found a bar.  
It was the same bar they’d gone to for dinner that night he’d actually left the house. It was the only other thing he’d seen in this town.  
He hadn’t brought a jacket. He was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. No sling. No ice for his shoulder, no heat for his back. Pain killers sitting like cement in his stomach. The taste of chalk in his mouth. His face and arms burned and prickled and he knew his fever was climbing slowly. Lava in his lungs, cotton wool in his head.  
“Hey,” It was the gorgeous hostess from the other night behind the bar, “You’re back without your friend.”  
Dean hugged his left arm into his chest as he sat down, wincing, “Brother,” he corrected, before coughing into his too tight fist.  
“You okay?” she raised an eyebrow, “You’re looking even more beat up than the other night… No wonder you never called me.”  
Her playful smile would usually have Dean leaning across the counter, wrapping her around his little finger, heading out the door with her, but today…  
“Look, can I just get a whiskey?” he drawled, his voice catching on the mucus in his throat.  
“Sure,” she looked concerned, but poured him a glass.  
The place was dead right now, so she stayed in front of him and poured herself one too.  
The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed urgently, body heaving, wet and nasty sounding. His shoulder was jostled by the fit, and his neck and shoulder muscles clenched in sympathy.  
“ _Argh_ , son of a bitch,” he wrapped his right hand around his left shoulder, trying to hold it there. _Really should have worn the sling, Winchester._  
“Here.”  
He looked up and the hostess, Riley, he read on her name tag, had poured a glass of water and set it in front of him.  
“Need some asprin or something?” she asked.  
Dean sipped the water and shook his head, “No, I’m on enough painkillers already,” he managed a smirk.  
“Should you be drinking?” she quirked an eyebrow.  
“Probably not,” Dean said, taking another sip of whiskey, “But I didn’t come here for a lecture.”  
“Hey,” she held her hands up, “not trying to give you one. You seem like you got a lot going on. I’m not big on judging other people. You make your own decisions.”  
Dean nodded, “I like your attitude, Riley.”  
“Oh, we’re on a first name basis are we?” she grinned, “That would work if I knew your name, stranger?”  
Dean smirked, but his gaze stayed down, towards his whiskey, “Dean,” he cleared his throat.  
“Dean,” she nodded.  
Dean stifled a sneeze against his wrist and accepted the napkin he pushed into his hand.  
“Thanks,” he sniffed.  
“No problem.” 

…

Dean stayed until his pills started wearing off. He’d drunk quite a bit but he wasn’t drunk. Too much going on in his head. Too much adrenaline keeping him sober. In the last hour the bar had gotten more crowded, and the few people that had been there when he arrived were well and truly cut off.  
He knew it was time to head back. That Sam and Bobby would be worried. More importantly he wasn’t going to miss taking his medication. Dizzy and puking his guts up was better than the fire in his back and shoulder, and he’d choose it every time. He’d felt a few shivers run through him and air was starting to hurt his exposed skin.  
Yeah, time to go home.  
He pushed off his barstool, deciding not to say goodbye to Riley, better to just cut and run. Nothing would ever happen anyway. 

…

Dean came stumbling in just as the sun was going down. He smelled of whiskey and beer, and smoke. Limping slightly and hugging his arm, like it was about to fall off.  
Sam wanted to yell and scream. Remind him he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Punch him out and chain him to his bed so he could keep an eye on him. But Bobby had told him to let him be.  
_“Dean’s always been a guy to go away and think about things. He needs to be on his own sometimes.”_  
Sam agreed, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.  
“Hey,” he said, watching Dean settle on the couch.  
Dean glanced at him, “Hey, Sammy.”  
“You want some ice?”  
Dean sighed, corners of his mouth turning up, “Yeah, thanks… that’d be awesome.”  
Dean allowed Sam to help him into a button down, fix his sling over the top, lie his heat pad on the lounge, strap some ice to his shoulder and prop him up with some pillows so he could breathe comfortably. Sure, Sam was pissed that Dean had left, that he’d been making this hard for all of them, but it was the little things. It was moments like this when Dean accepted his help. When Dean realized he needed Sam. _Those_ moments… they made it all worth it.

…

When Dean woke up from his nap he was sore and slightly hungover. Okay, maybe he had been a little drunk. He hadn’t dreamt, thank God, or whatever.  
Sam was there, Bobby too, talking a few metres away in the kitchen.  
“Keep it down,” Dean groaned, faking annoyance, “Some of us are trying to sleep.”  
“Well, look who decided to join us,” Bobby smirked, “Thought you were gonna sleep through the night.”  
Dean shifted, trying to ease the ache in his back.  
“Yeah, well, all this sleeping makes me tired.”  
Sam brought Dean a glass of water and a handful of pills.  
“Dean, I called your doctor about the painkillers making you sick.”  
“Mm…” Dean said, pushing himself to sit upright.  
“He said it can happen with those drugs but he wants you to come in tomorrow so he can change you on to something else. He’s going to review your scans while you’re there as well.”  
“How’d you swing that?” Dean croaked.  
Sam tilted his head, “Are you hungry? Bobby making dinner.”  
Dean rolled his eyes at Sam’s avoidance of the question.  
“I’d kill for a burger.”  
Bobby chuckled, “How did I know you were gonna say that?”

…

That night Dean, Sam and Bobby ate burgers and chips, courtesy of Bobby and his new cooking utensils, and watched Indiana Jones, on their new DVD player. And all the while Dean thought about what the doctor would say tomorrow, and pretended not to be terrified.

…


	13. Chapter 13

Dean woke and the room was dark. TV still on, but muted, casting ominous shadows around, making it seem like things were moving when they weren’t. He felt dizzy, sick. Sam was asleep in the recliner. Bobby could be heard snoring in the guest room.   
Dean could feel the heavy pressure in his chest and the desperate need to cough. He didn't want to. He knew it would hurt, but he couldn't help it. Once he started though, he couldn't stop. He needed to sit up straight but he was having a hard time moving that far. He started to panic when he realised the coughing wasn't slowing down. Tears in his eyes. Pain exploding everywhere.   
"Dean?"  
Sam's groggy voice sounded from the recliner and Dean was relieved he'd woken him up with his coughing, because he certainly couldn't call out to him in this state.   
"Crap..."   
Suddenly Sam was gone. And what the hell was he thinking leaving him like this? He was dying. He couldn't breathe. And Sam had abandoned him. He coughed and coughed. He could see stars across his vision. Knew he couldn't hold onto consciousness much longer.   
"Here, it's okay," Sam said, the familiar hum of the nebuliser whirring beside them. "Slow it down, Dean. Breathe."  
Dean finally got a breath and the coughing stopped. His face was stained with tears and he felt overly warm, hands and feet prickling.   
Dean's half shut eyes peered over the mask at Sam as he rubbed a hand through his hair, eyes puffy from sleep.   
"How did you get this sick?" he asked, seemingly to himself.   
"Sorry," Dean panted, voice raw from the fit.   
"Hey, no. Don't apologise-"  
"'M sorry, Sammy... I'm sorry."  
Dean knew Sam was right. He shouldn't have to apologise. It wasn't his fault. But it was hard for Dean to see _how_ something wasn't his fault. Surely he'd done something to deserve it. Who was he kidding? Of course he deserved it.   
"Stop it, Dean,” Sam said firmly, and apparently he's still been muttering it.   
Dean only stopped talking when he coughed again. It didn't hurt so bad this time, the machine helping him catch his breath.   
"You've got a fever again," Sam mumbled, brushing a hand across his forehead.   
"What time is it?" Dean groaned.  
Sam squinted at his watch, "Almost 4am."  
"The movie finished," He breathed, closing his eyes.   
"Yeah, dude," Sam laughed, "You were asleep within the first 20 minutes."  
"You drugged me."  
"Hey, those sleeping pills have you out so hard you don't have any nightmares. Everybody wins."  
"Hooray for everybody," Dean grumbled, sarcastically.   
"Hey," Sam said, like _what's up with you?  
Oh, Sammy if you only knew..._  
"Well, then talk to me, Dean."  
Crap. He was doing that thing where he said his inside thoughts out loud. Friggen fevers.   
"Okay, yeah, we gotta get you to bed. Get that fever down before your brains melt."  
"Wouldn't be the first time..." Dean couldn't help but laugh, because it was either that or cry.   
Sam's eyes were wide and worried, and Dean wanted to tell him _don't worry, Sammy._ But why shouldn't he worry?   
"Can you make it to the bedroom?" Sam asked, sliding a hand behind his shoulders.   
The neb had finished and the mask was no longer on his face, and when did that happen?  
Sam tried to pull Dean forward, and if he wasn't in pain before, he was definitely in pain now.   
"Ah! Stop-" Dean launched into another coughing fit.   
"Crap, sorry," Sam said, hand spread across Dean's warm chest.  
"Do you wanna just... stay here?"  
Dean nodded, swallowing back a warm wave of nausea.   
"You gonna be sick?"  
Dean had to think for far too long. By the time he'd finished thinking Sam was shoving a bowl into his hand.   
"M good," Dean swallowed again. His throat was on fire, "M not gonna."  
"Okay, well just rest for a second. Catch your breath."  
Dean didn't realise he was panting, chest heaving up and down like he was struggling for air.   
"Slow it down. You're gonna make yourself cough again."  
"Thought I was... supposed to be... coughing."  
"Not till you're blue in the face."  
" _You're_... blue."  
Sam huffed a laugh, "Nice to see you can still think quickly on your feet."  
"Shut up... bitch."  
Sam laughed again, "Fine, jerk."  
Dean grew warm and eventually he fell into a weird kind of sleep, where he could hear what was going on around him but couldn’t move his body. It was strange and frightening, but mostly he was too tired to care.  
 _“What’s wrong, boy?”  
“His fever’s back. I think it’s bad, he just conked out on me.”  
“Where’s your thermometer?”  
“Uh, it’s in Dean’s bathroom. Can you grab some wet washcloths too? We need to cool him down.”  
“On it.”_  
He could hear Sam was worried, Bobby too, even though Bobby was better at hiding it. Dean always could see right through him.   
_Family don’t end with blood, boy._  
Dean liked that Bobby was here. In all this, he’d never let him down, always cared for him. It was nice to be cared for.  
 _“Dean, you with me? We gotta cool you down, okay? You’re spiking a pretty high fever.”  
“Isn’t he supposed to be getting better? What’s he on the friggen antibiotics for?”  
“Yeah, I dunno, Bobby. They don’t seem to be working… but then I haven’t been able to get the jerk to stop drinking.”  
“Idjit.”  
“Yeah… I don’t blame him though.”  
“Yeah, must be tough. Can’t imagine what he’s going through.”_  
You don’t want to.  
 _“Dean?”_

…

Sam fisted a hand in his hair, tugging slightly. Dean had been completely out for a while. Still. Almost comfortable. As he knew it would, that gave way to the thrashing and the nightmares, even as they tried to lower his fever.  
It had come down some. They’d been layering him with cool washers and he’d managed to choke down some Tylenol in one of his more lucid moments. The fever wasn’t the problem now though. He was clearly trapped in hell again, screaming.   
“I’ve gotta call Maxine. Watch him,” Sam said, leaving Bobby beside Dean where he still lay on the couch.  
Sam shut himself in his room, momentarily pressing his hands to his ears, because he could still hear Dean screaming.   
He took a composing breath and dialed Maxine.  
 _“Hello? Sam?”_  
“… Hey, Maxine.”  
 _“Is everything okay?”_  
He could tell from her voice that she already knew why he was calling. He was kidding himself if he thought the walls of this house were going to hold Dean’s cries.  
“Sorry about the noise,” he laughed, “Dean’s not having a good night.”  
She paused, _“That’s okay, Sam. Are you alright?”_  
“Yeah, I’m fine… I was just calling to give you a head’s up and to apologise.”  
 _“You don’t have to say sorry.”_  
Sam laughed again, feeling close to tears, “Did he wake the baby?”  
 _“No,”_ he could hear the smile in her voice, _“His crib’s on the other side of the house and he could sleep through an earthquake. Don’t worry about us.”_  
“Jesus, it’s 5am,” Sam sighed, looking at his watch.  
 _“Hey, we’re used to getting up early. It’s no trouble. Just take care of yourselves. Let us know if you need anything.”_  
“Thank you,” Sam breathed, feeling water pool in his eyes.  
 _“No problem. Bye, Sam.”_  
“Bye.”  
Sam sat on the end of his bed, lowered his face into his hands, listening to Dean continue to scream and Bobby trying to comfort him, and cried.

…

Dean didn’t so much wake up, as he did drift into consciousness. When he as dreaming he felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean, fighting with everything he had to get to the surface. When he did manage to break through and wake up, he still felt trapped under water, everything distorted around him. He wasn’t used to seeing this world. Not anymore.   
“Dean?”  
He groaned.  
“You with us?”  
Sam was sitting on the coffee table beside him, coffee cup in his hand.  
“I think so,” Dean croaked, voice hoarse.  
“Good,” Sam smiled.  
“I take it, it was a rough night?” he asked, unsure really as to what happened.  
“Rough morning. It’s almost 10.”  
Dean closed his eyes, drew his eyebrows together.  
“Geez… what did I do?”  
“Nah, man, don’t worry about it.”  
Dean glanced at Sam, “That bad, huh?”  
“It’s fine…”  
Dean closed his eyes again. His back was sore, he tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position but nothing was comfortable.  
“Your back playing up?”  
Dean thought about making some smartass comment but he didn’t have the energy.  
“Yeah.”  
“Your doctor’s appointment is in a few hours. Wanna have a shower?”  
Dean groaned, then smiled, “Don’t know if I’m up for that yet, Sammy.”  
“Okay, I’ll grab you some coffee,” Sam said, getting up on the table.  
“Hey.”  
“Yeah?” Sam stooped.  
“Thanks.”

…

Dean sat soaking in the bath. He'd been in there for over an hour now. For some reason, it hadn't miraculously cured him. He didn't know what he was thinking. Yeah, years of torment and agony, solved by a warm bubble bath. Go screw yourself. It had felt good while the water was warm, airing on the side of hot even, scalding. But now he was just resting on his ass bone in luke warm water. Even the bubbles had deserted him. The pressure he felt on his sacrum, pressing in from all angels by angry, angry muscles, was making his thighs cramp up, his knees ache and his calves sting. One of his feet had pins and needles.   
"Well, this is great," he said out loud. Gasping as a white hot poker stabbed into his hip.   
How the hell was he supposed to get out of here? His back and legs were so stiff. Yeah, this had been a great idea at the start. Now, not so much.  
He lifted his right elbow to rest on the edge of the tub and pushed up, trying to get his feet under him.   
“ _God_ ,” he groaned, as he found his feet, standing up.  
He heard a thump on the door.  
“Hey, you okay?”  
Dean rolled his eyes, stepping out onto the bathmat, ever pressing a hand against the wall.  
“I’m fine! Go away!”  
Sam didn’t reply, so Dean knew he was just standing outside the door, hovering, waiting for him to slip up.  
Dean looked in the mirror and tried not to see black eyes staring back at him.  
 _You’re gonna die. And this, this is what you’re going to become._  
He left the bathroom with his jeans on and nothing else. Sam was in the hallway as he expected.  
“Need help with your shirt?”  
Dean tried to avoid his gaze.  
“Dean…”  
“Yeah… alright.”

…

"So, do you want to start with the shoulder or the back?"  
Dean sat hunched in the chair in the doctor’s surgery.  
"I guess shoulder, doc," Sam spoke up, when Dean didn’t make any move to speak.  
"Alright," Dr. Reid placed the films on the board and turned on the backlight. "Well, I read the report from the radiologist. I'd have thought you would have told me you'd been shot before..."  
Dean faked a smile, "What difference does it make?"  
"Well, it could make quite a bit of difference. So, you've taken a bullet to this shoulder… _twice_?"  
Dean nodded, looking vague, "Yeah something like that."  
"Okay... It appears that you haven't had any kind of medical treatment for this either time..."  
"That's correct," Sam said, earning a glare from Dean.  
"Well, you're quite lucky considering. It seems both times the bullet missed your collarbone, however, your scapula," he pointed, "this shoulder blade at the back here, has been shattered and healed over several times. It's not anything to worry about, the bones have formed nice calluses, and apart from the shape of the bone being slightly disfigured it shouldn't cause you any long term problems."  
"Kay, get to the good stuff," Dean moaned.  
The doctor gave a patient look and placed another film on the light box.  
"The repeated dislocations have caused massive instability in the ligaments that hold your shoulder in place. You have a tear in your joint socket and also a complete ligament tear. That's a surgery job to fix. We'll do a minimally invasive procedure where we make a small incision and go in with some cameras and tools and fix the tears. The ligaments are all quite stretched as well so while we're in there we'll take a piece out of each one to make them shorter, and reattach them, to give you more stability in that shoulder joint."  
Dean was pale, and swallowed like he was holding back vomit.  
"You okay?" Sam asked.  
Dean looked more annoyed now, "I'm fine. So, when does this all happen?"  
"I think we should discuss your back first before we start booking things in."  
Dean tapped his foot, and Sam knew he was close to exploding.  
"The shoulder is the easy one... Your back is a little more complicated at this stage," Dr. Reid said, swapping out the pictures once again, "Now you said you first injured your back in a fall?"  
"Yeah," Dean nodded, sweat beading on his brow.  
"Okay, well, it must have been quite a traumatic event because several vertebrae were broken. A compression fracture is what we call it. Basically the bone is put under so much pressure it collapses on itself. Fortunately the bones haven’t shattered or fragmented, but I'm sure you can see something else very wrong with this image..."  
Sam could. Anyone with two eyes could.  
"Let me explain. These are your vertebrae here, in between each vertebrae are the discs. A healthy disc, like this one up here," he said pointing to a disc higher up in Dean's spine, "should be very light, almost white in the middle. That's the soft nucleus inside. When a disc is put under great pressure it can bulge, or even rupture, spilling out the nucleus into the back or the sides. This bright white line is your spinal cord. That carries all your nerves. About here," he pointed again, "is where the spinal cord ends and the nerve roots break off and run down into your legs. Right here," he pointed to the massive black blob in the middle of Dean's spinal cord, "is a large disc herniation. The entire disc has basically been crushed by the two fractured vertebrae. This is pushing on those nerves and that's why you're getting pain in your hips and legs, all the way down to your feet,” The doctor switched off the light and pulled up a seat in front of them, “Dean… this is an _incredibly_ painful injury, I'm surprised you can still stand."  
Dean smiled, but looked like he might pass out.  
"So, what do we do?"  
"Well, I wish that was the end of it... but sometimes when trauma happens after these discs have ruptured fragments of the herniation can break off and travel either higher or lower in your spinal column. You said the pain had got worse recently?"  
"Yeah, well, it's hard to say when. It's hurt for a long time."  
"I understand," the doctor nodded, "it seems some of the disc has broken off and has travelled lower down."  
"How do we fix it, doctor? Surgery?" Sam asked, leg bouncing up and down.  
The doctor sighed, "It's hard to say if we’ll be able to fix the herniation and the fragment with surgery."  
"What do you mean?" Dean breathed.  
"Well, the position the herniation is in, is right in the middle of the spinal cord. We could try and remove it but there's just too great a risk at further damaging those nerves."  
"So, what are you saying to me?"  
"We can do surgery to fuse the two fractured vertebrae. That’ll stop them from degrading or slipping and hopefully minimize some of your pain… the herniation, we won’t know until we get inside, but even then, it’s a long shot that we’ll be able to remove it all.”  
"So, what does that mean exactly?” Sam asked, hesitantly.  
“Right now it’s a matter of preserving what we have,” The doctor’s face turned dark, “and the pain _may_ improve… but will most likely never go away.”  
“You’re kidding me, right? Dean raised his voice slightly.  
“I’m sorry.”  
Sam sat back in his chair, flicking his eyes over Dean. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He could only imagine what Dean was going through.  
Dean was white knuckling the arm of his chair.  
“Dean,” Dr. Reid enquired, curiously, “what’s your pain like right now?”  
Dean eyes lit, like there was fire behind them. He took a halting breath.  
“It’s not great.”  
“Scale of 1 to 10?”  
 _100 billion…_  
“Probably a 7.”  
The doctor raised an eyebrow.  
“8.”  
“Can I give you something for that? Would that be okay? Before we start discussing our options.”  
Dean bit his lip and nodded.  
Dr. Reid stood and walked over to his desk.  
Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.  
“Sam, can you, uh, give us a minute?” Dean said, clearing his throat.  
Sam was taken aback, but swallowed and nodded, “Of course, man. I’ll just be outside.”

…

Dean relaxed as the needle released sweet painkillers throughout his body.  
“So, doc,” he said, “Give this to me straight. What am I looking at here?”  
Dr. Reid clasped his hands in front of him.  
“Shoulder surgery has a very high success rate. Your nerves have been damaged slightly by the dislocation but that should heal. Post surgery you’re looking at 6 weeks in a sling and up to 6 months recovery and rehabilitation. The back will take longer, and will require more rehab.”  
“That’s if I get the surgery?” Dean clarified.  
“That’s if you get the surgery.”  
Dean’s head spun, “And what if I don’t?”  
Dr. Reid sat back, “That’s your decision, Dean. I’m not going to say that your problems will be solved with this surgery. I wish I could, but I just don’t know. There’s too much to risk when we’re that close to nerves. However, without surgery it could get worse, much worse.”  
“What are the other options? _Are_ there any?”  
“Just pain management. Epidural injections, painkillers, nerve blockers. But it’s trial and error.”  
“Okay…”  
“Should we get Sam back in here?”  
Dean’s head was dipping. He was happily numb from the painkiller injection but he was still panicked, still storming inside.  
“Book in the shoulder surgery. I’ll think about the rest.”  
Dr. Reid put a hand under Dean’s right elbow to help him stand.  
“Can I get you to sit up on the table first? I want to listen to your lungs again.”

…

Dr. Reid hadn’t been happy with the progression of Dean’s chest infection. The antibiotics weren’t working like he’d wanted them to. He prescribed him additional antibiotics with a stern talking to about alcohol use and antibiotic resistance. _Blah, blah, blah_. He gave him different painkillers that shouldn’t cause much dizziness and nausea. He checked his shoulder again to make sure he hadn’t damaged it further since the MRI.  
 _"Now, how did you say you got this scar again?"  
"I didn't."_  
Sam was practically jumping up and down in his seat in the waiting room by the time Dean emerged, pale and shaken, because what was worse than not knowing what was going on inside his body, was knowing _exactly_ what was going on inside his body.  
They got back home and Dean lay up on the couch, watching some crap on TV.  
Bobby had to leave. He caught a case two states over. Said he’d be back before the surgery. Gave Dean a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder, and suddenly Dean felt like he was fifteen and his dad was leaving him behind to go hunt some monster without him, because someone needed to watch out for Sammy. Except this time it was Sam watching out for him.   
And it couldn’t have killed him more.

…


	14. Chapter 14

Sam woke up and the house was dark and quiet… too quiet. If he couldn’t hear Dean, that usually meant he wasn’t asleep. Or he wasn’t in the house.  
Sam got up and padded gently towards Dean’s room.  
He saw his brother standing in his room in the dark.  
"Dean... You alright?"  
Dean stared out the window into the blackness.   
"The side gate rattles in the wind…"  
He could see Dean was on edge, muscles tight across his shoulders.   
"I'll fix it in the morning," Sam said, rubbing sleep from his eye and pushing his hair back off his face.   
"Mm," Dean moaned, as though a rattling gate wasn't really the source of the problem. "I hate it when it's this windy..."  
"I can't fix the weather, dude," Sam said, leaning on the doorframe.   
"I know," Dean replied with not an ounce of humour.   
"Dean, you sure you're alright?"  
Dean finally turned from the window to look at his brother. He was pale.   
"You have to quit asking me that, Sammy."  
Sam frowned, eyebrows squeezing together.  
“Do you want a sleeping pill?”  
Dean coughed, “No, I don’t wanna sleep,” he quirked the corner of his mouth, trying to smile, but almost like he’d forgotten how.  
A gust of wind shook past the house.  
“You hear it?” Dean turned to look out the window again.   
Sam listened, “Yeah.”  
Dean turned his head slightly and Sam saw him chewing on his bottom lip.  
“Dean… is there something you want to talk to me about?”  
Dean’s eyes were wide, “I don’t wanna talk about it, Sammy.”  
“You keep saying that,” Sam finally entered the room, sat down on the end of his brother’s bed, “but I think maybe you want to. I think maybe you _need_ to.”  
Dean laughed, then his bottom lip quivered and he swallowed, “I’m scared, Sam.”  
Sam waited, scared any kind of movement or word would startle Dean back to hide in his hole.  
“Truth is, uh…” Dean continued, “I’m not doing so well.”  
 _I kinda noticed_ , Sam thought.  
Dean sat on the bed with his back to Sam. He flinched and hissed.  
“ _Ah_ ,” he groaned, clenching his jaw.  
“You alright?” Sam put a hand out to Dean’s shoulder, but hovered just above it, afraid to touch him.  
Dean’s shoulders shook and Sam thought for a moment maybe he was crying, and then he realised he was laughing.  
“You know how many cases I did with dad?”  
Sam tilted his head curiously, “No.”  
“Neither do I,” Dean looked down, “See, I was going on hunt’s with dad by the time I was old enough to handle the recoil on my sawed off.”  
Sam caught a glimpse of happy nostalgia in his eyes as he leant forward.  
“And I kept hunting with the old man long after you ditched us for Stanford...”  
Sam clenched his jaw at the subtle dig.  
“Until?” Sam prompted.  
Dean smirked, “I, uh, may not have been completely honest with you when I told you how this happened,” he pointed to his back.  
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, jaw still tight.  
“You’d been gone for a year, we were still getting the hang of hunting just the two of us… Dad, uh… we screwed up. I ended up in the line of fire, as well as two other civilians…”  
“What happened?”  
Dean sighed, “It was a poltergeist in Mississippi. Big old, creepy house. Some kids had broken in to try and spend the night on a dare…”  
Sam scoffed, “Cause when does that ever end well?”  
“Yeah,” Dean breathed, “Things were already going sideways by the time we got there. We had to get the kids out of the house, but dad thought he knew where the bones were buried…”

_…_

_“Dean! I want you to get in there and get those kids out!” John shouted above the noise coming from inside the house, as the wind picked up around them.  
“Where are you going?”   
“I’m going round back to burn the bones!”  
“No, dad, I think we should stay together. This spirit is powerful. We don’t even know if – ”  
“Dean, I gave you an order! Go!”   
Dean’s gaze lingered on his father for a moment before he sprinted towards the house, wet grass squelching beneath his boots as he pounded towards the door.  
He could hear the teenagers screaming for help inside…_

_…_

“He was wrong,” Dean stood back up and stared out the window, “The bones were supposed to be buried under the floorboards of the gazebo, so dad torched the thing. Except he hadn’t done the research right. The gazebo was torn down years ago and rebuilt, so who knows where the bones ended up. What we needed to do was cleanse the house.”  
“And he sent you in there without any backup?”  
Dean was still before he spoke again.  
“I _told_ him. I said not to split up.”  
“Dean…”  
“The thing tossed me around like a ragdoll,” Dean bit his lip.  
“The kids?” Sam asked.  
“Didn’t make it.”  
Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head.  
“But you said you finished the case?”  
“Dad did. Caleb and Pastor Jim came up to help him. I was laid up in a motel room. Every morning when I woke up I couldn’t feel my feet for a solid hour.”  
“ _God_ ,” Sam sighed.  
“I tried to keep hunting with dad after I’d decided not to see the specialist, but, uh, I was slow, off my face on pain meds half the time just to be able to get out of bed. Dad dumped me at Bobby’s telling me to “get right”. Eventually things settled down and I could go back to hunting… but things never were the same.”  
“Dean…”  
Dean coughed into his hand, “Sam… I’m tired.”  
Sam sighed again, knowing he’d missed his window of opportunity for asking questions.  
“You want the sleeping pill now?”  
Dean sat down on his bed and rubbed his face, “Yeah, and Tylenol or something.”  
“Okay,” Sam stood up, “Be right back.”  
Sam tried to ignore the shake in Dean’s hand and the wet trail from his eye to his jaw, as he handed him the pills and glass of water. He waited for Dean to hand the glass back to him before he spoke.  
“Why didn’t you just tell me that’s what happened?” he whispered.  
“At first it was about protecting dad, then it was about preserving his memory… but now… I just don’t give a crap.”  
Sam sighed, giving Dean’s good shoulder a squeeze before leaving the room and heading back to bed. He lay back on his pillows, seething from the mistake their dad had made that had cost Dean so much, and pretended he couldn’t hear Dean cry himself to sleep.

…

Sam got up early, before Dean, and went out to fix the side gate. He’d made a trip to the hardware store and back, attached a new latch and was making a pot of coffee when Dean finally wandered in, eyes puffy, hair mussed, face drawn and pale.   
“Hey,” Sam said, jovially, trying to set the day off on a good note.  
“Hey,” Dean’s voice was croaky and he cleared his throat loudly.  
“Coffee?” Sam asked, grabbing another mug.  
Dean nodded, sliding onto the barstool.  
“I fixed the gate.”  
“Thanks,” Dean said, eyes vacant.  
“If you’re feeling up to it later, maybe we can go out for lunch,” Sam offered, handing Dean his coffee.  
“Sure,” Dean replied, mechanically.  
Sam frowned, wondering what else around the house needed fixing.

…

It was mid morning and they’d already had breakfast. Dean had showered and gotten into his jeans and a button down, the sling now a permanent accessory to his outfit. Sam sat at the breakfast bar, clicking away on his phone and scrawling in a notebook. Dean crossed the kitchen to peer in the fridge.  
"Dean... I was thinking maybe I should get a job.”  
"What? Why?"   
"We've spent all our cash and the credit card's tapped. We could pull some more fake ones but if we're not moving around we'll be too easy to trace."  
"We've got more cards..."  
"Yeah, but they won't last forever. The medications alone..."  
Dean looked down.   
"We can't afford this, Dean. The house, the medication, your surgery..."  
"And what are you gonna do?" Dean bit.   
Sam sighed, "I could get some work bartending. Hustle pool when I can."  
"Yeah, cause there's so much money in that," Dean rolled his eyes.   
"What choice do we have?"  
Dean stiffened, "Well, if you're getting a job I'll get one too. I can work, and I'm not letting you leave me sit here all day like a house wife while you're out working."  
"You can't get a job, Dean," Sam breathed.   
"Why not?"  
"You know why."  
"What? Because I got a bum shoulder and a screwy back? I'm not paralysed, Sam. I can still fix cars."  
"Dean..."  
" _What_? What, Sam? I want a job too. I can work. I've worked all my life. I can do this. I'm not letting you carry us on your own. That's not how this works. I can do it, Sammy."  
Sam looked Dean in the eye.   
"No... you can't."  
Dean stared at Sam for the longest time. Adam's apple working, jaw clenching, blinking rapidly to get rid of the tears.   
"Just sit down, Dean," Sam said eventually.   
Dean shook his head slightly, "No, I don't wanna sit down," he said quietly as he limped towards the front door.   
"Where are you going?" Sam sighed.   
"For a walk!" Dean shouted on his way out, followed by a tremendous door slam. 

…

Dean headed down the steps at the front of the house. He was slow. Ridged. The man across the street was putting his bins on the curb and glanced up at him. He gave a sympathetic smile and an encouraging nod. And who the hell gave him the right to look at him like that? He didn't even know this guy. How dare he give him a sympathy nod. He must have been talking to Dave. Christ, the whole friggen neighbourhood probably knew who he was by now.   
_That's the freak that screams every night._  
Dean did his best to glare but he probably looked too pathetic for that. He stumbled on the last step and almost face planted into the cement path. Geez, that would have looked good for his case.   
_Let me get a job, Sammy. I can't even walk down the stairs without busting in my head._  
The guy was still looking at him. As if contemplating coming over to help, and so help him if he did because Dean would have clocked him so hard he'd never get back up.   
He didn't know why he was so angry. Maybe it was the constant gnawing pain. Maybe he wasn't even angry. Maybe he was more depressed than anything. Because Sam was right. He couldn't get a job. He couldn't even look after himself right now. And, not surprisingly, coming to that conclusion didn't make him feel better.   
His limp grew slightly worse as he continued walking, reaching the park near the end of their street.   
He took a funny step and felt something shift in his spine, pinching, almost dropping him to his knees it hurt so bad.   
His eyes were closed, hand against his lower back. Breathe.   
"Dean? Are you alright?" The panicked voice belonged to Maxine, walking back towards her house pushing a baby in a stroller.   
He reached out his hand to her, the need to lean on something desperate.   
She grabbed his arm and allowed him to put some weight on her.   
"Gah," he groaned, "Sorry, Max. Lost my footing for a second there."  
"You're awfully pale. Do you want to sit down?"  
"No," Dean shook his head, teeth clenched, "No, it's okay. But if you're heading in that direction I might walk with you, if that's okay?"   
"Yeah, absolutely. Here, lean on this."  
Dean walked beside her, right hand bracing himself on the stroller. God, it hurt so bad.   
"Are you sure you're okay?"  
"I will be," he tried to give a reassuring smile but his heart wasn't exactly in it, "It's just time for more painkillers."  
She put her hand on his, and that was it. It was too much.   
He turned his face away, pretending to look at something across the road. He gritted his teeth, steeled his jaw as a tear slipped from his eye.   
"Dean?" Maxine said, so soft and gentle.   
Dean cleared his throat, fixed his eyes straight ahead, allowing the tears to fall freely. His expression blank. He couldn't bring a hand up to wipe them away, because he only had one hand right now and that one was busy keeping him upright.   
"Do you want me to call Sam?"  
"No," Dean forced a small smile, looking down at his feet.   
By some miracle he made it back to the house. Sam was sitting out on the porch and jumped up when he saw him, hurrying down the steps to help Dean back up them.   
"I got it," Dean mumbled, annoyed, although he leant against Sam anyway because he had no choice.   
"What happened?" Sam asked, looking back at Maxine.   
"Nothing happened. Leave me alone," Dean said, shaking Sam off his arm and wandering into the house. 

...

"You're right, Sam."  
"About what?"  
"About everything. About me... I can't do the same things you can do. And I'm not alright."  
"Dean, it'll just take -"  
"Take some time, I know. That's all I'm hearing is 'it'll just take time'. Well, we don't have time, Sammy. I can't be out of this game. Not after the things I've done. Not after all..." he choked on his words, sobs pushing their way up his throat, "Not after everything."  
"Dean," Sam breathed, "You can't be blamed for the things you did down there. You did what you had to. You need to forgive yourself, man."  
Dean dropped his head, chin to his chest, scrunching his face as the tears flowed in streams down his cheeks.   
"I can't, Sammy... I can't."


	15. Chapter 15

Dean needed a drink. Like _really_ needed a drink. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. His mouth filled up with saliva at the thought of a sip of jack, or beer, or anything. He just needed _something._  
He was sitting on his bed in his room, nebuliser mark over his face, mist flying around him. After his walk and his crying session, he was finding it harder to get a breath. He didn’t know if it was from anxiety or the chest infection or what, but he was feeling terrible. He just needed to shake this off, everything was closing in around him and he felt trapped. He just wanted something to go right. Why shouldn’t one thing go right for him? Oh yeah, he’d done insurmountable torture in hell.   
He sniffed, trying to breathe through his nose but everything was so clogged, painful and throbbing behind his cheekbones. Yep, don’t forget that pesky sinus infection either. He grumbled under his breath. Maybe a drink wasn’t a good idea. He needed to kick this, so the antibiotics needed a chance to work. He could see that now. Didn’t mean if someone put a bottle in front of him he’d be able to say no.   
After he’d spoken to Sam he’d shut himself in his room. He was achy, in pain, but he decided to clamp down on voicing it. He figured Sam knew by now. And now he knew what it was from, how it all happened. Dean had never mentioned it to him because he’d never wanted to admit that his dad had gotten it wrong. Sure, they were both partly to blame for things going the way they did, but John had said he had it under control, thought he knew exactly what to do… and he didn’t listen. Dean had _told_ him not to send him in there alone and he didn’t listen. He never friggen listened. And two people died. _Kids._  
Dean’s chest was clenching up and he coughed, realising the mist had disappeared and the sweet medicine had run out. He lifted his clumsy right hand and pulled the mask off his face. He attempted to breathe through his nose but he was so stuffy, nothing was getting through there.  
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, “You need to relax.”  
He stumbled into his bathroom and turned on the hot tap in the shower, perching himself on the toilet lid, and pushing the door shut. Steam was what he needed. That might break up the solid block in his nasal passage.   
For a while it didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. The heat had made him sweat, but his sweat was cold. A droplet ran down his back between his shoulder blades like an icy finger tracing his spine. He shivered and wrapped his arm around his chest. A cough bubbled up that he directed towards his shoulder.   
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, giving a subconscious sniff.  
Air vibrated up his nasal passage into his sinuses, and he snuffled wetly.   
He hastily grabbed the toilet paper from the roll and ripped off about _1000_ squares, quickly bundling them to his face.   
“ _Huh’TTSSSCHHuh!_ Oh my god…”  
He blew his nose and a mass of hot, sticky mucus came rushing out, gurgling into the scratchy toilet paper. He glanced briefly at the mess before folding it in on itself to find a dry part, quickly, as he sneezed three more times. Wet, forceful. He blew again. Green.   
He coughed until he saw stars, the same green gunk coming up out of his lungs to land in the toilet paper.   
“Better out than in,” he grumbled, congestedly, his breath hot, voice crackling.  
He must have sneezed another ten times before there was a tentative knock on the door and Sam’s concerned voice.  
“Dean? You okay? You don’t sound so good.”  
“You can come in,” he tried to talk through the congestion, ended up coughing.  
Sam opened the door and his jaw dropped.  
“Dean! It’s a friggen sauna in here! Are you trying to bring your fever back?” he quickly shut the water off and turned to his brother, taking in his appearance in a glance.  
Dean knew he looked like crap. Sitting hunched on the edge of the toilet, wads of used up toilet paper on the floor and another bunch nestled over his face, catching his hot breath. He could hear the rattle in his own lungs as he breathed, could feel the sweat dripping, running towards the end of his nose to get lost in the toilet paper. He felt sick to his stomach and was trying so hard not to throw up, because the congestion that was clearing out his nose was also clearing down the back, running down his throat and into his belly, churning. He swallowed thickly.  
“Whoa, man,” Sam was crouched in front of him, hand on his good shoulder, which Dean realised was keeping him from falling on his face, “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”  
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, not game enough to remove the tissues. He sneezed again.  
“Well, I guess the steam worked,” Sam glanced around at the state of the room, the state of his brother.  
“Yeah,” Dean’s voice crackled and he coughed again, sticky chunks landing in the toilet paper, “Gross…” he mumbled, because… yeah, _gross._   
“I was coming to ask you if you wanted lunch. I was gonna make burgers.”  
“ _Urgh,_ ” Dean groaned, sniffing experimentally and lowering the toilet paper.  
“Do you want soup?” Sam asked as if the question was a surprise even to him.  
Dean furrowed his brow, panting through his mouth, “Chick’n noodle?”   
Sam smiled, patted his brother’s knee, “Chicken noodle.”

…

Dean submitted to his brother’s help, mostly because he was still sneezing every five seconds. But at least he could breathe… well, sort of. Sam propped him up in his bed on a stack of pillows, placing a tissue box at his elbow.  
Dean bunched the tissues gratefully around his nose and didn’t stop sneezing.  
“Do you want me to move the TV in here?” Sam asked, looking over Dean’s feeble body.  
“Nah,” Dean’s voice cracked, unable to make an ‘n’ sound in his current state.  
He was still pouting over the conversation from earlier that day. Hiding out in his room was his plan, and even though Sam was needed to help him up off the toilet and to his bed, didn’t mean he was going to talk to him more than he had to.  
“Okay,” Sam said, hovering by the door, “I’ll just make you some soup.”  
Dean nodded, sneezing into a tissue.

…

He fell asleep while waiting for the soup. Woke up in a cold sweat, trembling and afraid, Sam’s name on his lips, feeling every sensation of a knife being drawn from throat to naval, fire in his gut.   
He couldn’t hear Sam thundering down the hallway so he must have been having a quiet night terror, muttering and whispering and whimpering, not thrashing and screaming and crying.   
He coughed a sticky lump into some tissues and threw them on the floor. He had a dull ache in his ribs, a knotted feeling in his lower back, and a hot knife through his shoulder. His nose was raw and felt hollow, abused, but better than it had been.   
Sam tapped on his door and opened it, bringing in a tray with a bowl on it, as well as a glass of orange juice and an array of pills.  
Dean laughed, “Where’d you get that tray?”  
Sam smiled, looking like he felt a little silly, “Bobby bought it with all that stuff.”  
“Feel like I’m at a bed and breakfast.”  
Sam chuckled, “Yeah…” he placed the tray at his brother’s side.   
“Smells great,” Dean lifted the bowl onto his lap.  
“Surprised you can smell anything,” Sam said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.  
“Yeah, me too.”  
Sam picked at a thread on the bedspread.  
Dean took a tentative mouthful of noodles and broth.   
Sam was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for the verdict.  
“This is great,” Dean’s voice crackled, but he didn’t bother clearing his throat. Instead he took another spoonful of the soup to his lips, relishing the warmth on his throat.  
“It’s canned,” Sam smirked.  
Dean shrugged, “Good things come in cans.”  
Sam looked down, smiling, “Fruit.”  
“Soup,” Dean nodded towards the bowl.  
“Beans.”  
“Spaghetti.”  
“Soda.”  
“Beer.”  
Sam’s expression changed and Dean glanced away out the window. Why the hell did he mention beer?  
“Uh, you should take your medicine when you’re finished with that. You’ve gotta be hurting now,” Sam said, standing up.  
Dean nodded, but didn’t say anything.  
“You need anything else?”  
Dean watched the bowl teeter on his lap as he raised the spoon, “Got a spare hand?”  
Sam took a step towards him.  
“I’m kidding,” he smiled, “I’m fine.”  
Sam furrowed his brow like he didn’t believe it, “Okay… I’ll be outside. I’m gonna borrow Dave’s mower and mow the lawn.”  
“You sound excited.”  
Sam smirked, “Enjoy your soup. Get some rest.”

…

He could feel the tears burn behind his eyes, his breath quickening, because no position was comfortable. Any way he moved the pain in his back was still there, intensifying. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack, because it hurt so bad.  
 _You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine._  
He was shaken from his daze by the familiar rock riff as his phone buzzed near his hip. It was Bobby.  
“Hey, what’s up?” his voice was strained.  
 _Crap, get it together.  
“Hey, Dean. Is Sam there? He’s not answering his phone.”_  
Dean struggled forward, sitting up on the edge of his bed, panting.  
“He’s mowing the lawn, believe it or not. Why? What do you need?” Dean coughed when he got to the end of his sentence, tilting the mouthpiece of the phone away from his face.   
“I need him to look something up for me. I’m in a bit of a jam. Need to know what can kill a Ciguapa.”  
“A what now?”  
 _“A Ciguapa. They’re usually found in the Dominican republic.”_  
“Well, what the hell is one doing here?” Dean winced, coughed again.  
 _“Dean… could you get Sam for me, son?”_  
Dean pushed himself to his feet, fighting through the black spots in his vision.  
“Dammit, Bobby. I’m _fine_. I’ll call you back.”  
Dean flipped his phone closed and leant against the wall. He took a breath, wiped his nose on his sleeve and pushed off, making his way to Sam’s room. He snagged his laptop and headed for the kitchen, settling himself in front of it at the breakfast bar. He grabbed the bottle of Tylenol and shoved a couple in his mouth. He was going to need something to get through this.   
“Okay, Ciguapa… See-gwaa-pah.” he exaggerated the syllables as he moved his mouth.  
His eyes widened as he read about it.  
“What the hell’s Bobby doing taking this on alone?” he muttered to himself.   
He took his hand off the track pad to rub at his lower back, feeling the blood run away from his face.   
“Shit,” he pressed the heel of his palm into his eye.  
He took a moment, then sniffed, blinking owlishly.  
 _Get. It. Together._  
He tapped away, researching the lore. These looked like nasty suckers. _Kinda hot though_ , he thought, staring at a depiction of the creature.   
His back spasmed and he froze.  
 _Oh, God. It’s too much…_  
He pulled open sweaty eyelids, focusing on the computer in front of him. There it was.  
He grabbed his phone and called Bobby.  
 _“Dean, tell me you got somethin’,”_ Bobby sounded out of breath.  
 _Called in the nick of time._  
“You gotta burn her,” he grunted, “But don’t get close. You can’t let her look you in the eye and don’t let her touch your skin. Use a flare gun or something.”  
 _“Thanks, boy!”_   
Bobby hung up and Dean pressed his phone to his forehead. It killed him not to be with Bobby right now, but this had given him something. He could help. He didn’t have to be out of the game completely. Now he had something… Now he had hope.  
He pushed himself up out of the chair and heard the door open as Sam walked in. He gripped the countertop, vision sliding, world tilting.  
“Dean? You alright?”  
Sam was across the room in two seconds.  
Being upright had caused a surge of pain that was hard to see through, but he was coming out of it slowly, colour and sound returning to the world.  
He opened his mouth to answer but Sam was already talking again.  
“ _Ciguapa_? What the hell is that? Are you hunting?”  
“Bobby called,” Dean grumbled, “Needed help.”  
“Huh,” Sam was bent over, reading off the screen.  
“Sam?” Dean asked, feeling the panic rise up his chest.  
“Yeah.”  
“It’s bad.”  
Sam looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and Dean was glad he saw understanding in his eyes, because he was at the point where he couldn’t do it alone. The pain was too much.  
Sam straightened and put a hand around his brothers arm, “What do you need?”


	16. Chapter 16

Dean felt Sam’s fingers gripping his forearm and the relief of having him there almost allowed him to just let go. He felt himself falling backwards.  
“Dean,” Sam’s arm was around his back, countering his weight, “Hold on. Let’s get to the couch.”  
Sam supported Dean over to the couch.  
“What’s worse? Back or shoulder?”  
Dean slipped back into the couch cushions, “I don’t… I don’t know.”  
“Okay, I’ll get you ice and your heat pad. You comfortable like that?”  
Dean smiled at the question, “As I’m going to be.”  
Sam smelt of fresh cut grass and gasoline. He got Dean settled on the couch, not lying completely flat because of the whole breathing thing.  
“Hey, Sam?” Dean croaked.  
“Yeah?” Sam said, looking down at him like he was wondering what else he could do, what more could he give him to make Dean feel better, to make it all go away. And willing to give everything.  
“Just talk to me, man,” Dean smiled again, keeping it light. _Trying_ to. “Distract me.”  
Sam looked confused, and then sad. Dean closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see it.  
“Sure… of course.”

…

Bobby stumbled in at 3 o’clock in the morning, tracking mud in on his shoes, bleeding from a gash across his brow.  
Sam shoved him in a shower, cleaned up, and stitched him up before sending him to bed in the guest room, and thought maybe if this was where Bobby wanted to come after a hunt when he was on this side of America, then he didn’t have a problem with that. No problem at all.  
After Dean had hit a pretty hard wall earlier in the day, he’d managed to fix him up as best he could. He applied heat when he needed it, ice almost constantly, pills and water and food, nebuliser treatments, everything he could think of beside a foot rub. He’d seemed to get better. Spaced out on meds but at least not crying in agony. He’d even made it to the dinner table to eat the grilled cheese Sam made for dinner. After that Dean had put himself to bed and Sam hadn’t heard a peep from him… which he soon realised wasn’t a good sign.  
Dean _wasn’t_ asleep. Sam went in to check on him and he was staring at the ceiling. He sighed. Dean didn’t look at him.  
“You okay?” he whispered.  
Sam saw Dean swallow.   
“Dean?”   
Sam walked in and sat on the bed next to Dean, mattress tipping.  
Looking closer Dean’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated, bottom lip quivering.  
“Dean, come on, man. Come back to me.”  
Dean took a deep breath in, startled, “Sam?”  
“It’s me, Dean. It’s real,” he grabbed his brother’s hand, holding tight.  
Dean sighed, lungs crackling, “Where am I?”  
Sam put his other hand on Dean’s forehead. He wasn’t overly warm.  
“You’re at the house. We live here.”  
Dean’s eyes flitted around the room.  
“I promise you, you’re not there. You got out. It’s over.”  
“Okay…” Dean breathed.  
“You okay now?” Sam asked, rubbing his tired eyes.  
Dean avoided looking at him.  
“Can you… can you stay?”  
Sam watched Dean gulp painfully.  
“… Sure,” Sam lay down on his brother’s bed, patting Dean’s chest gently.

…

Dean woke up first. He furrowed his brow looking at his brother sprawled on his stomach on the bed next to him. He didn’t know why Sam was sleeping in his bed, or _on_ his bed rather. He wasn’t under the covers. Sam and Dean hadn’t shared a bed since Dean was ten years old. Luckily it was a king and there was enough room for them both to lie without any risk of them touching each other.   
“Sam,” he said, voice husky.  
Sam snuggled deeper into the pillow so Dean let him be.   
Dean wasn’t quiet in his movements these days. He rolled onto his side to push himself up to sit. He let out a bubbling cough, grabbing some tissues to press against his mouth. He was in pain, aching in his chest as well and seriously needing to use the neb. It was clumsy work getting things done with one hand but he managed to set it up.

…

Sam wasn’t in his bed when he woke up, and his hand was no longer firmly on his brother’s chest. He could hear a whir, and crackly breathing. He looked over and Dean was hunched on the edge of the bed beside him, mask over his face, looking pale and so small, freckles standing out across his whole face. He didn’t realise Dean was so freckled until now.  
“Hey,” He said, sitting up, rubbing a hand through his hair.  
Dean smirked, managing a congested “Morning.”  
“You need help?”   
He waved a hand, “’M good.”  
Sam yawned, “You get any sleep?”  
Dean coughed into the mask, “I think so… I have no idea what you’re doing in my bed though.”  
Sam huffed, “You wanted me to stay, dude. _Begged_ me, really.”  
Dean frowned, “You’re full of it.”  
Sam laughed, “Seriously, dude! Wanted to cuddle and everything.”  
“Get off my bed,” Dean growled.  
Sam laughed again, “Fine. What you want for breakfast? Bobby’s here.”  
Dean looked confused.  
“He stumbled in early this morning. He’s a little banged up, but doing okay.”  
“He shouldn’t have been out there alone,” Dean grumbled.  
Sam bowed his head, “I’m gonna take a shower first. You need anything?”  
“Dude, I’m good,” Dean bit.  
 _Snappy_ , Sam thought, before getting up and returning to his room. 

…

While Sam was in the shower Dean got a phone call from his doctor. Surgery was scheduled for his shoulder next week. Given his history, and current medical condition he was considered a priority.  
 _“Dean, I wanted to talk to you about the large scar on your shoulder…”_  
“What about it?” Dean grumbled, guarded.  
 _“While you’re in the hospital I can have a plastic surgeon come by and take a look. See if there’s anything they can do to possibly remove it for you, if that was something you’d be interested in.”_  
“They can remove things like that?”   
_“Well, it would probably require a large skin graft, I’d imagine…”_  
“No, thanks, doc. I’ve been sliced into enough,” Dean cringed saying the words.  
 _“My apologies, Dean. I just thought I’d let you know that the option was there.”_  
Dean sighed, “Yeah, thanks but no thanks.”  
 _“Okay, not a problem. How are those antibiotics? Starting to clear up yet?”_  
“I think so,” Dean pressed his hand into his chest.  
 _“That’s good, Dean. I’ll see you at the hospital on Thursday and hand you over to the surgeon that’ll be doing your shoulder…”_  
“Wait – you’re not doing it?” Dean felt his chest clench.  
 _“Oh, no, Dean. I haven’t performed surgery for a few years now. It’ll be Dr James handling the surgery.”_  
Dean was silent, trying to calm his breathing.  
 _“Dean? Are you still there?”_  
“Yeah, doc. So, what’s the plan?”  
 _“I’ll send you out an email with the details. We’ll admit you in the morning and you should be home that night if all goes the way it should.”_  
“You’ll be there in the morning when I get there?”  
 _“Of course.”_  
“Good, ‘cause I won’t know where I’m going,” Dean laughed, trying to push down this clingy streak that had somehow scrambled to the surface.  
 _“Let me know if you have any concerns about this… at all.”_  
“Sure,” Dean nodded to himself, “Thanks for calling.”  
He hung up the phone and threw it onto his bed.  
“Oh, god,” he bowed his head.  
The thought of somebody cutting into him, a stranger, while he lay helpless on a table, surrounded by cold, hard equipment, terrified him. And it was a kind of fear that was so intense it was almost tangible.   
“Dean?”   
A knock came at his door, followed by Bobby’s voice. He couldn’t answer just yet, the fear stealing away his words, paralysing him.   
Bobby opened the door and soon Dean felt his hand on his shoulder.  
“Dean, talk to me.”  
“… Bobby,” Dean reached his hand up to grip his surrogate father’s, “I’m really scared.”  
“Dean, look at me,” Bobby said, firmly.  
Dean looked up at Bobby’s eyes, feeling guilt at the sight of the stitches on his forehead, but his gaze was strong.  
“You’re going to be fine. You don’t have to be scared, not of this. Me and Sam, we’re here, Dean… and we ain’t goin’ anywhere… ever.”


	17. Chapter 17

Dean stayed in bed all day.  
Sam brought him breakfast that he didn’t eat.   
His hand shook as he accepted the offered pills, showing he was in pain but not saying it. In fact he stopped talking all together.  
Sam and Bobby let him be, feeling he needed the space and time to think about things.  
Sam removed the breakfast tray with Dean’s untouched toast and eggs at midday and replaced it with a sandwich for lunch.  
“Dean, are you going to eat this?”  
Dean closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.  
“Okay… well, I made it for you and you should probably eat something. You know, all the pills you’re taking… you need something in your stomach.”  
Dean groaned and kept his eyes closed.  
“Let me know if you need anything.”

…

Sam and Bobby were sitting on the couch, something on TV in the background while they researched hunts for Bobby in the area. There hadn’t been a peep from Dean’s room in hours, except for the occasional coughing explosions, a muffled sneeze or two. Sam had started thinking about getting something for dinner. Dean had only eaten two bites out of his sandwich, so he needed to get something into him soon.  
Just as he was thinking about what he could make that Dean would like he heard his brother’s door open and the sound of his boots coming up the hallway.   
Dean looked fresh, shaven, dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt and jacket, sling over the top, walking tall. Looking probably the best he’d looked since the whole ordeal started, before their run in with the vamps.  
“Sam, you got my keys?” he said, gruffly.  
“Uh, they’re on the bench there,” Sam pointed, standing up, “Where are you going?”  
“I’m going out, Sam,” Dean said, grabbing the keys. He stopped when he saw the lore books and computer on the coffee table, “What’s all this?”  
“Oh, we’re just trying to find a case for Bobby, that’s all.”  
Dean nodded, keeping his chin up.  
“Dean, you sure you’re alright to be going out?” Bobby eyed him from the couch.  
Dean shrugged, “I’m fine. Don’t wait up,” he said pulling the door closed behind him, leaving Sam and Bobby with their mouths hanging open.

…

Dean walked into the bar, waltzing up to a barstool and beckoning the barmaid.  
“Hey, can I grab a cheeseburger and fries, extra onion.”  
“Sure,” she smiled, “Anything to drink?”  
Dean breathed heavily. _Shit._  
“Nah,” he laughed out, shakily, “Maybe water,” he added as an after thought.  
“Okay,” she nodded, glancing at his arm in the sling.  
“Is Riley on tonight?” Dean asked, smiling.  
“She gets on at 7,” the barmaid said, before heading to the back to hand over his order.  
Dean checked his watch. The night was still young.

…

The half a burger he’d eaten sat heavily in his stomach. Maybe something so greasy wasn’t a good idea after he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He pulled the painkillers out of his pocket and swallowed one with his sweating water glass. Cool beads dripping down the sides to form a puddle on the bar top.   
“It lives,” Dean looked up to see Riley hanging off the bar, “Didn’t think I’d see you back here for a while.”  
Dean smiled, dropped his head to look down at his meal, pushing the plate further away, “Couldn’t keep me away.”  
Riley eyed his water glass, “Not drinking tonight?”  
Dean shook his head, “Nah… pills and stuff. I’ve already got in trouble once.”  
Riley laughed, moving closer to where Dean sat behind the bar.   
“You done with your meal, honey? You’ve barely touched it.”  
“Yeah, I’m done,” Dean grumbled, swallowing thickly.  
“Was it okay?” she wrinkled her brow.  
Dean smiled wryly, “It’s fine, just not that hungry.”  
“Okay,” she said, taking it away from him.  
Dean palmed the sweat off his face. It was a little warm in the bar. He didn’t stand a chance of picking up if he was a disgusting, sweaty mess.  
Riley returned and Dean grinned.  
“So, what time you get off tonight?”  
Riley cocked her head to the side, giving him a tertiary glance up and down.  
“Eleven.”  
Dean took a sip of water to stop from coughing.  
“Why? You got something in mind?” she asked.  
“You look like a girl that knows how to have fun, that’s all,” Dean smirked.  
Riley grinned, then her smiled faded slightly, “Dean…”  
Dean sensed her hesitation and put a hand up to stop her, “It’s fine. I get it.”  
“No, Dean… I just… Are you sure you’re okay to… have fun?”  
Dean glanced at his watch, “This painkiller’ll kick in, in about 20 minutes. Then I’ll be good for 6 hours.”  
 _At a push._  
Riley looked sympathetic, but still eager, “Okay… Do you want me to grab you a booth or you comfortable there? I still got four hours.”  
“I’m good here,” he smiled, “Better view,” he added with a wink.  
Riley rolled her eyes and left him to serve someone else.

…

The night got a little busier and Riley wasn’t really able to just hang out and chat with him all night, and he discovered just how lonely a bar was when you weren’t drinking.   
His phone buzzed again. He’d already got three texts from Sam.  
 _ **When are you coming home?  
Don’t forget to take your pills.  
Please remember you can’t drink on the antibiotics. You don’t want to get sicker.**_  
Dean huffed a laugh as he read the new message.  
 _ **If you bring a girl back here I’ll kick your ass.**_  
Dean tapped a reply.  
 **Like to see you try.**  
He thumbed his phone and waited.  
 _ **Seriously, dude!**_  
Dean laughed, feeling like an idiot for grinning at his phone. Stupid, little brother.  
 **We’ll go back to her place ;)  
 _You’re unbelievable. Did you take your pills?_  
Yes, MOM.   
_Shut up. Be careful._**  
Dean put his phone back in his pocket. He was slow on the painkillers, like he was moving through water, but numb and euphoric. He shifted in his seat though, because even drugged out of his mind he could still feel the hard barstool pushing into his tender sacrum, legs and feet tingling.  
“Hey, you okay?” Riley was pouring off the tap in front of him, eyeing him.  
“Sure,” he grunted, but his brow was furrowed.  
Riley nodded, indicating behind him, “That booth’s free. It’ll be more comfortable.”  
Dean glanced back. A cushioned chair did sound better.   
He got up and blanched, gripped the bar top.  
 _Shit._  
“Hey!” she was grabbing his hand.  
Dean had his eyes pressed closed, “I’m good. I’m fine. Just been sitting for too long.”  
Riley let go.  
“I’m gonna go for a walk. I’ll meet you outside when you finish.”

…

Dean left the impala at the bar and drove back with Riley to her place.   
He coughed in the passenger seat, trying to quell it quickly. It was late. He probably needed a neb treatment. Something he hadn’t thought about until now that it was getting harder and harder to catch his breath.  
“You live close by?” he asked, rubbing his palm across his chest.  
“Yeah, just down here. You okay?”  
Dean shifted in his seat, painkillers beginning to wear off, “Yeah, I’m great, sweetheart.”  
“Do you want to tell me what happened to you?” she glanced at him as she turned into a driveway.  
Dean sighed, coughed into his sleeve, “Not really.”  
“You were coughing a lot in the bar…”  
“Yeah,” he laughed, “I’ve been a little under the weather.”  
“Are you contagious?”  
“I don’t know,” Dean shrugged, “Do you care?”  
She sighed looking at him, bit her bottom lip, “Not really.”

…

Riley handed him a cup of coffee and he wrapped his cold hands around the warm mug. She slid behind him on the couch, her slender hands massaging his shoulders.  
Dean took a sip and coughed towards the floor. She leaned over his shoulder to look at his face, placing a smooth hand on his forehead.  
“Do you just want me to take you home?” she whispered in his ear.  
Dean placed the mug on the coffee table and coughed hard into his fist, shaking his head.   
“Do you need pills or something?” she asked.  
“No, I’m good,” he turned his head and kissed her.  
Riley supported him to the bedroom and helped get him lying down.  
“You okay?” she asked again, climbing onto the bed beside him.  
“No,” he smirked, “but you’re gonna do all the work.”

…

Dean lay on Riley’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her warm arm was draped across his stomach, her forehead pressing against his bare shoulder. She’d been careful with him, and seemed to kind of enjoy doing the heavy lifting, literally. He glanced down at the tiny beads of sweat on both of their skin, his from fever, hers from exertion. He was surprised she’d gone along with him, wanted to be with him even when he was a wreck. And he’d only gone out looking for it because he’d felt so broken and empty, needing to feel the touch of someone, to not feel afraid for a moment. But now he was lying there, terrified to slip asleep for a single moment, because he didn’t want to go to hell, and he didn’t want her to see how truly messed up he actually was.   
She huffed in her sleep beside him and wiggled her nose against his arm.  
He smiled down at her before he felt the familiar constriction in his chest. God, he needed to cough. He needed a nebulizer. He needed his brother.  
He didn’t want to wake her up but she was lying on his good arm, and even though she’d taken the sling off for him he was still in no position to reach for his phone on the nightstand.   
“Riley,” he whispered, trying to wake her gently, but speaking caused him to cough, and that was _not_ quiet.   
“Dean?”  
He coughed, turning his head away from her.  
“You need water, honey?”  
Dean shook his head, “Needa… sit up,” he said, between jerking coughs.  
“Okay, come on, big guy,” she said, helping him up.  
He sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, her hand on his back, “You want your sling back on?”  
“Should call my brother,” he groaned, rubbing his face.  
“You don’t want to stay?” she asked, kissing the back of his neck.  
“There’s stuff I need… at home,” he panted, coughed some more, “Besides, I can’t sleep here.”  
“Why not?”  
Dean bit his lip. _Shit_ , this was a bad idea.   
“Hey, you don’t need to tell me,” she said, softly.  
Dean nodded, “Can you hand me my phone?”  
She put it in his hand and he almost couldn’t see clearly to find Sam’s number, and then beautifully he started coughing again just as Sammy picked up. He felt Riley take the phone from him.  
“Hey, Sam… Yeah, that’s him. I can drive him if you like? Oh, okay. Yeah…”  
Dean heard her rattle off her address and hang up.   
“Sam’s gonna be here soon. Let’s get you dressed, babe.”

…

There were two things Dean couldn’t help but think as Riley assisted him into his jeans. The first thing was that this was _so_ much better than Sam dressing him, especially because she was only wearing a tight black singlet and tiny red underwear, and she looked _so_ good. The second thing was that it was worlds worse than Sam dressing him, because he knew Sam, Sam was family, and he didn’t need to be embarrassed in front of him.   
She helped him dress and get his sling on and made him another cup of coffee.  
“Listen, Riley… thanks,” Dean mumbled.  
“For what?” she seemed legitimately confused.  
“You know,” he nodded.  
“Hey, it wasn’t like I wasn’t getting something out of it too,” she winked, sticking her tongue out between her teeth as she grinned.  
Dean looked down.  
Car lights came through the window.  
“I think your brother’s here,” she grabbed his face and kissed him, “When you’re ready to talk about what you’re going through, you know where to find me.”

…

“Hey,” Sam said, as Dean got in the car, “You have fun?”  
Dean smirked, “Yeah.”  
He began coughing and leaned forward, head on the dash, like that position would help him get a deeper breath.  
Sam’s hand was on his back, and he sagged in his brother’s presence.  
“Well, I’m glad… Let’s go home.”


	18. Chapter 18

Dean lay on his right side and clutched his stomach, drawing his knees up towards his chin. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. His head was pounding, his stomach rolling, and he was shivering and sweating at the same time.  
Sam had brought him home, gave him a neb treatment and sent him to bed, but he hadn’t slept at all. The day was dawning, light streaming through his curtains. A thin needle of light stabbing painfully into his eyes. He felt _wrong_.   
He managed to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom before he started dry heaving over the toilet, coughing up mucus and strings of bile, all that was left in his stomach. His hands were shaking so much he could barely rip off a couple of pieces of toilet paper to wipe his face and blow his nose. Every time he coughed and choked over the toilet it made his headache that much worse. He tried to calm his breathing, knowing he was panicking, but it was no use. The panic raged inside him, ate him up.  
He’d lost sense of time. He had no idea how long he’d been in the bathroom for, crouched in front of the toilet, left shoulder leaning against the wall which was probably a really bad idea, because it _hurt_ , but that was the only thing keeping him from falling completely to the ground in a shaking heap.  
At some point later, after it felt like he’d coughed and gagged out the entire lining of his stomach and oesophagus, he felt a cool hand in between his shoulders.  
“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam’s voice was beside him and he cracked his eyes open to gaze at his sleepy face.  
Dean shook his head. He couldn’t answer. He leaned over the toilet again and coughed up nothing but hot, stinging air.  
“Geez, you’re burning up…”  
“Sam?” That was Bobby’s voice.  
“Dean, talk to us. What’s wrong?” Sam said, again, rubbing his hand up and down his back.  
“My head…” Dean leant his elbow on the toilet seat and pressed his fingers hard into his head.  
Bobby placed a hand on his arm and he jumped, thumping his shoulder harder into the wall.  
“Dean, it’s just me,” Bobby said, fear apparent in his voice.  
“Scared me…” Dean panted, eyes tightly shut.  
“Did you drink anything last night?” Sam asked.  
It did feel like a hangover he’d had once or twice.  
Dean gulped, “Nothing… promise,” he offered up a smirk, “Feel sick… and my head is pounding…”  
“Sam,” said Bobby’s firm voice, and then a hand found his knee, which he only flinched a little at.  
“Be back in a second,” Sam murmured through the constant white noise in his head.

…

“What, Bobby? What is it?”  
Bobby had pulled him out of the room and was staring at him with wide eyes.  
“Call me an old drunk, but that looks a lot like withdrawal to me.”  
“What?” Sam breathed, glancing back towards the room as he heard Dean retch again.  
Sure, his brother liked to drink, and since he’d got back from hell the alcohol consumption had gone up significantly, but _withdrawal_?   
“He shouldn’t still be burning up like that from the chest infection.”  
Bobby was right about that. He’d been on and off with the fever but by now that should have been getting better, especially since he’d stopped the alcohol and given the antibiotics a chance to work. The only thing he’d changed now, was that he _had_ stopped drinking.  
“But, Bobby, that would mean…”  
“That he’s dependent?” Bobby raised an eyebrow.  
Sam shook his head, although… yeah. It made sense.  
“Sam?” Dean’s shaky voice came from the bathroom and they both made their way back in there.  
“Dean, you alright?” Sam crouched beside him.  
“I need something…”  
Sam glanced at Bobby.  
 _Something._  
“What do you need?” Sam asked tentatively.   
Dean didn’t answer. He collapsed sideways into Sam, who wrapped his arms around him to keep him from hitting the ground. Sam’s neck was covered in sweat where Dean head pressed into it. His brother was trembling.  
“Sam, let’s get him to bed.”

…

Dean finally came out the other side of it the next morning, after spending about 24 hours sick to his stomach, shaking, sweating, anxious and jumpy, and with a pounding headache. Sam had been pouring water into him every time he was lucid enough to swallow… but it would just come up a few minutes later. His skin was hot and dry, his mouth like cotton wool. He would have killed for a drink to calm his nerves, he even asked for it a few times. Sam and Bobby had been there the whole time, muttering things like, “It’ll pass, Dean”, “Hang in there. It’ll pass”. How they knew it would pass Dean didn’t know. But hearing that from them had offered some comfort. When his fever was high, he slipped back to hell, and he spent the whole day, tiptoeing on the edge of reality, unsure what was real and what wasn’t, because he could feel _everything._  
When he woke up and actually felt halfway human, he let his eyes scan across the room. Sam was asleep on the floor by his bed, head pillowed in his arms close to Dean’s stomach, as he slept sitting up. Bobby was in the chair by the window, sleeping as well.   
Dean went back to sleep.

…

It was another day before Dean could stomach food, and get out of bed to stretch his legs. He was weak, stumbling, and needed to lean on the wall, or his brother, to stop from falling over.   
Sam and Bobby had coerced him out onto the couch. His back and shoulder must have been sore from the constant shivering, clenching tight all his muscles. Sam could tell in the way he carried himself, guarded. Good news was, he was too exhausted from the withdrawal to be grumpy.  
“I’m gonna make you some toast for lunch. What do you want on it?” Sam asked, looking over Dean as he lay on the couch, seeming actually interested in the soap opera on TV.  
Dean didn’t look at him, “Surprise me.”  
Sam hoovered, “How you feeling?”  
“Like I’ve been through a meat grinder,” he muttered, a small, sad smile on his lips, “Nothing I can’t handle, Sammy.”  
Sam sat down on the arm of the couch, “Dean…”  
Dean glanced up at him, “What?”  
Sam sighed.  
“You better not be about to get serious with me, dude. I don’t really have the energy for that.”  
Sam opened his mouth in preparation to say something and then closed it. He changed his mind again before he spoke.  
“Do you know why you were so sick, Dean?”  
“Bad burger?”  
Sam sighed again, clasping his hands, adjusting his elbows to rest on his knees.  
“Bobby and I think it was withdrawal.”  
Dean stared at the TV, but Sam could see his chest move up and down more quickly as his breathing hastened.   
“You’ve been drinking a lot since you… got back, and…”  
“Sammy, could we not talk about this right now?”  
The clenched way in which Dean spoke made Sam stop and look at him. The colour had gone from his face and he swallowed hard.   
“Yeah,” Sam paused, “Sure.”

…

By the next day Dean was basically back to normal, as normal as it got for Dean. Aside from the pain, and the cough, and the nightmares… Okay, so he was pretty damn far from normal, but at least he wasn’t puking his guts up and sweating through a million shirts. He hadn’t thought about what Sam had said to him. He had too much to worry about to add that one to the list. The “funny turn” he had taken had brought him closer to the surgery day. Two days and he would be under, cut into, _carved_ into. Slicing and tearing and stitching. Pain, pain, _pain._  
He felt the world slip away. Darkness. Hanging in the void. The sounds of people screaming, and no one there to help. No one helped. There was only screams, and laughter. Wicked laughter. They were laughing at him. They were laughing at the way he cried, and begged, and screamed for his brother. The pain was unreal. Unnatural. _Never. Ending._  
“Dean!”  
Dean saw Sam staring at him from across the table, Bobby beside him. The sounds of the screaming dulled.  
 _You’re not there. You got out._  
“You with us, son?” Bobby asked.  
Dean cleared his throat, looked down at the sausages on his plate and swallowed back a wave of nausea.  
“Sorry, I…”   
He, what? Got lost in a hell flashback? Zoned out _again_?   
“It’s okay,” Sam said, stopping his racing thoughts, “You don’t have to explain it.”  
Dean sighed, coughed a little, “Thanks, Sammy. I’m not all that hungry.”  
“I can make you something else?”  
Dean paused a moment, allowed his walls a chance to build back up. Shove the crap down. Move on.   
He grinned, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and help us find Bobby a case?”  
He read Sam’s look, and fixed him with his own.   
_Let me have this, man. I need it._  
Sam huffed and smiled, “Fine, but you’re not getting out of research this time.”  
“Oh, you love that nerdy crap, Sam. You know it.”  
“Yeah, laugh it up. I’m serious,” Sam chuckled.  
Bobby laughed, looking from Sam to Dean, “Idjits.”

…


	19. Chapter 19

Sam knew it had to be the fact that the surgery was in two days. It seemed the more scared and anxious Dean got, the more he played it off. In some senses he was glad to have his brother back, but he knew it was just a show. And the more Dean tried to push through the pain, the worse he was making it. They were trying to find Bobby a hunt... well, Dean was trying to find Bobby a hunt. Sam and Bobby had agreed that even if they found one, he wasn't leaving until after the surgery and Dean was out of hospital. So, yeah, they were humouring him. And Sam felt guilty as hell, but Dean wanted to pretend everything was fine. And, dammit, Sam did too.   
Dean coughed again for what felt like the millionth time. The heavy wetness from it had gone, now the cough was dry and grating. It was a good sign that the antibiotics were working. Which was good because he was on his last day of those. However, the dry cough seemed to annoy Dean more, and since he'd been so sick from the withdrawal and puking his guts up, his voice had slowly started to go. Not that he was speaking much. But when he did his voice was breathy, hoarse, and cut out on him occasionally like he was going through puberty. In normal circumstances Sam would have teased the crap out of him, but now, it just didn't seem fair.   
Dean was sitting up at the table in front of Sam's laptop. Sam was reading the local paper and Bobby had his weapons spread out, cleaning and greasing them.   
Dean shifted in his seat, straightened his back with a wince and hunched over again, squinting at the screen. He started coughing again before he even had time to bring his fist to his mouth.   
Bobby glanced at Sam and raised his eyebrow.   
"You need some cough syrup, man?" Sam said, casually, not looking up from his paper.   
He felt Dean's gaze on him as the coughing died down.   
"Nah, I'm good, Sammy."  
The line between Dean's eyebrows got more pronounced the longer they sat there. Sam found himself hoping they'd find something soon so Dean could just go and lie down. He was obviously in pain. He'd made a small hissing noise a few times and placed his right hand over his shoulder. Dean was very telling, even when he wasn't saying anything at all.   
"Wow, it's almost lunch time," Sam said, looking at his watch, "You must be ready for some painkillers."  
Dean looked at Sam with a hint of hostility, a little combative, before he set his mask firmly back in place. Sam could have laughed at how transparent his brother was, except there was nothing funny about it.   
"No way. They whack me out so much I don't know which way's up. I'll go grab us some grub while you keep looking. There's gotta be something worth killing around here," Dean stood up, muscling through pain. Sam could tell by the way his lips turned white from the sudden change in altitude and the drop in blood pressure, but he seemed steady enough.   
"Dean, why don't I go? You stay here with Sam," Bobby said, clicking a gun back together.   
"I'm good. Besides you're kind of in the middle of something."  
Bobby looked down at his greasy hands and the dismantled guns in front of him.   
Sam wanted to say so many things.   
_You need to stay, Dean.  
You can't drive with your arm in a sling.   
You need to take your medication. _  
Instead he said, "Try not to get the most unhealthy thing you can find," with a smile.   
It was painful to let him go, when Sam was so worried about him getting from the table to the couch and back again. But coddling him, and pandering to him, was killing Dean's spirit. And that in itself was harder to watch.   
Dean smirked and snagged his keys off the table, leaning a hand on the doorframe as he crossed the threshold, back clearly in knots.   
Bobby looked at him once the front door had swung shut, "You sure it's a good idea letting him go on a supply run?"  
Sam sighed, "Not in the slightest."

...

Dean sat in his car outside a burger joint. The drive had been more difficult than he thought. His shoulder ached, his back ached. He managed to catch his breath and pulled himself from the car with a groan.   
Inside generic fast food place #3 the lunchtime rush was in full swing. There were people everywhere, which always put Dean on edge. Well, it had since he’d got back from his little stint down under. A lot of people meant a lot of noise, a lot of threats coming from every direction, and he couldn’t watch out for them all.   
People seemed to give him a wide birth, testament to how shattered he looked. The sling was also a beacon for people to steer clear. No one wanted to risk bumping into him. Which was good because Dean didn’t want anyone near him right now.   
“Can I help you?”  
Dean looked up at the smiling girl in the bright yellow shirt and cap, headset snug over her ears.  
“Hey,” Dean croaked, “Can I get a, uh –“  
“What was that?” she said, leaning forward, unable to hear his raspy voice over the bustle of the place.  
Dean cleared his throat, attempted to raise his voice, “Can I get two double cheeseburger meals, extra onion…”  
“Extra onion?” she asked, watching his lips when he spoke like she was trying so hard to listen.  
Dean nodded, “And a crispy chicken salad.”  
“That was ‘two double cheeseburger meals, extra onion, and a crispy chicken salad’?”  
Dean nodded, saving his voice that she could barely hear anyway.  
He paid the lady and moved to the side to wait. There was a group of rowdy teenagers behind him, holding skateboards and using less than family friendly language. Dean tried to drown out their drivel, focus on the sound of his breath moving in and out of his lungs, the blood swishing through his ears at the pumping of his heart. He should have taken those painkillers. He was stubborn. Big freakin’ news flash.  
Someone shouted his order and he went to the counter, realising there was a bag and a tray of drinks, and how was he supposed to carry that in one hand?  
He picked up the drinks tray and tried to get it in his left hand that was poking out the end of the sling, but the weight was too much. The lady watched him struggle.  
“I can help you out to your car?” she offered.  
Dean sighed, resigned, and smiled at her, “That would be great, thanks.”  
She came out from behind the counter and took the bag as he carried the drinks in his right. They were approaching the door when the group of teenagers did something that was apparently the funniest thing they’d ever seen and flailed about laughing. One of them pushed the other and he fell backwards, straight into Dean.  
Dean couldn’t see anything but white for a while, deafened by the sound of static in his ears. The kid was tall, and his back had smashed into Dean’s left side, bearing the brunt of it straight on the injured shoulder. Not only that but the jolt had sent a shockwave through his entire body, rattling his spine, pain flaring up all over.  
He’d dropped the drinks, spilled them everywhere and was clutching his shoulder. His back found the wall and his tipped his head back, almost losing his legs beneath him.  
Sound returned.  
“Sir, are you okay!?” It was the girl, standing there with his food.  
“Sorry, dude!”  
“You alright, man?”  
“Dude, he looks like he’s gonna puke.”  
“You’re such a freak, Scott. You totally nailed him.”  
Dean sucked in shallow breaths. The pain was extraordinary.   
“Sir?” the girl said again.  
“F-fine,” he breathed, trying not to hyperventilate.   
“I can make you some more drinks. Do you want to sit down?”  
“Forget it,” he said, hand finding the wall behind him, using it to press up to stand on his own.   
“I’m sorry…” she began to say. Dean just grabbed the bag from her.  
“Thanks,” he mumbled and limped towards the door.  
His back was in spasms, and all he could think about was that erupted disc in his spine, that broken piece moving around in his spinal chord. The thought alone threatened to bring him to his knees. He felt sick.   
He threw the food in the front and slumped into the drivers seat. Palming his forehead he realised he was covered in sweat. He just wanted to sit a while, but he knew it would probably be best if he got home as quickly as possible.

…

Sam tapped the pen aggressively against the table.  
“Sam…” Bobby grunted, making him stop abruptly. The tapping had been getting quicker as he kept looking at the clock on the wall, and Dean hadn’t come home yet.  
“He should be back by now, shouldn’t he?”  
Bobby looked at his watch, “He hasn’t been gone all that long. Give him a few more minutes.”  
Sam frowned, “You don’t think… He wouldn’t go to the bar, would he?”  
Neither of them could think about that question too much longer, as the rumble of the impala alerted the street of Dean’s return.  
Sam let out a sigh of relief.   
The impala trundled into the garage and he heard the familiar creak of the door. It seemed to be a long time before Sam heard his brother coming up the front steps. He heard a clatter as Dean dropped his keys.  
“ _Son of a…_ ” Dean grumbled through the door.  
Finally the door opened, as Sam was about to get up and let him in.  
Dean literally staggered into the room, eyes wide and pupils huge. He was covered in sweat from head to toe, white as a sheet. Sam could see his hand trembling as he gripped the doorhandle.  
“My God, Dean. What happened?” Sam started to stand up.  
Dean’s eyes roved around the room, then promptly rolled back into his head, and Sam and Bobby watched in horror as he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.


	20. Chapter 20

Sam and Bobby rushed to Dean’s side, as he lay completely unconscious, body twisted with his sudden collapse. Sam’s hand found his forehead, tapping his cheeks. His skin was cold, Sam’s hand came away wet with sweat.  
“He’s in shock,” Bobby said, as Sam stared fearfully at his hand.   
“Sam,” Bobby said, firmly.  
“Yeah,” Sam muttered, snapping out of his frozen panic.  
“Get him on his back, find something to prop his legs up. Grab a chair.”  
Sam helped Bobby roll Dean onto his back, careful of his shoulder. He dragged a chair over from the table and lifted Dean’s legs onto it.  
Bobby was checking his breathing and pulse. Sam’s eyes were fixed on Dean’s face, completely lax, and paler than he’d ever seen it, and that was saying a lot after the last few weeks they’d had. He could still see Dean stumbling through the door, and not being able to move fast enough to catch him before he hit the ground. Why the hell did he let his brother go out? What had happened while he was gone? He was doing fine when he left. Sure, he wasn’t in great shape but he wasn’t this bad.  
“I got no radial pulse,” Bobby muttered, moving his hands to Dean’s carotid artery in his neck.   
“What do you mean?” Sam said, gripping his brother’s hand, feeling the ice cold skin.  
Bobby pushed his hat back and scratched his head.  
“His blood pressure’s real low, Sam.”  
Sam’s own breathing quickened as Dean made no sign of waking up. Bobby must have been satisfied that there was a pulse, albeit a weak one, and Dean was still breathing. Bobby was talking softly to Dean, trying to get him to come back, but he was completely checked out.  
Bobby looked at his watch, “I’m giving him 2 minutes to wake up. If he doesn’t, I’m calling an ambulance.”  
It was a minute forty seven before Dean began to stir, and Sam was close to tearing his hair out, if he wasn’t still hanging onto his brother’s hand.  
It started with a vigorous shiver, then his tongue appeared sluggishly to wet his lips, before his eyes cracked open.  
“Wha – “ Dean sucked in a breath.  
“Easy, Dean, easy.”  
“Cold,” he shivered, again.  
Bobby already had two blankets over him so he settled for tucking them closer around him.  
“Okay, stay _here_ , son. Stay with me.”  
Dean’s eyes closed again and his head lolled to the side.  
“Dean?” Sam called, surprised at how young and scared he sounded, voice wavering. With that one word from Sammy, Dean’s eyes opened again.  
“It’s okay, Sam… I’m okay.”  
Bobby shook his head in disbelief.  
“Dean, stay awake, son. How are you feeling? What happened?”  
“Um,” Dean groaned, “hurts… bad.”  
“What happened, Dean?” Bobby kept talking.  
“Some kid… bumped into me… _God_ ,” he winced, trying to move.  
“Sam, you got a blood pressure cuff in your med kit?”  
“Umm, I think so. It’s old though.”  
“Long as it works,” Bobby said, getting up off his knees, “Stay there, Dean. Won’t be long.”  
“Dean?” Sam asked, placing his other hand on his head.  
“Sammy? What’reyoudoin’?” he slurred.  
“Uh,” Sam chuckled, “Helping you get better.”  
Dean smiled and huffed weakly, “Good.”  
The word alone felt like it cut Sam down the centre.  
Bobby returned and started taking Dean’s blood pressure with their old beaten up blood pressure cuff. Sam wasn’t sure he’d even seen it used since dad was around.  
Dean had closed his eyes again and ceased movement.  
“His blood pressure is 80 on 35. No wonder he passed out.”  
“God,” Sam sighed, and this was after he’d been lying down for 2 minutes.  
“Get him some water. We have to get his BP up.”  
“Bobby…” Sam was holding onto his brother’s hand, “Should we call his doctor?”  
“That ain’t a bad idea,” Bobby grunted, squatting back down next to Dean, “Dean? Son, come on.”  
Dean was out cold again.  
“Do it, Sam.”

…

Once Sam had called the doctor, suddenly there was an ambulance in their driveway and paramedics charging through the door. There was a lot of chatter, a lot of barking statistics and orders. Dean’s blood pressure had come up slightly but they were putting a bag of fluid into him because it was clearly too low for him to regain consciousness. Shortly after they’d put a line in, he had a c-spine brace on and was being moved onto a stretcher. Sam was painfully reminded of the semi-truck crash they’d had back in 2006, when they were airlifted to the nearest hospital, as Sam continually screamed Dean’s name, waiting for a response that never came.  
 _Tell me if they’re okay!  
Are they even alive!?_  
Sam stood back and let them work. Dean didn’t seem scared. He wasn’t searching for Sam or Bobby to reassure him that everything would be okay. He wasn’t doing anything.

…

Sam rode in the ambulance with Dean and a few minutes into the trip he’d come around, his fingers gripping back at Sam’s hand.   
“What’s going on?” he asked, blinking around at the ambulance.  
“You passed out, Dean. We’re going to the hospital.”  
“Surgery’s not today,” he mumbled, trying to push himself up.  
“Whoa, steady there, Dean,” Tim, the paramedic said, keeping him still, “We need to check you over at the hospital.”  
“Shoulder hurts,” he groaned, settling.  
“I bet it does,” Tim said, “It should feel better once we get it back in. Might be having surgery sooner than you think.”  
“Back in?” Sam swivelled his eyes up to Tim, then back to his brother’s arm.  
“It’s dislocated. Could be from when the kid ran into him or when he hit the ground. Looks like a posterior dislocation too, but I can’t say for sure.”  
“Oh, God. Dean,” Sam noticed the pallor of his brother’s face.   
Even though the paramedics had given Dean enough painkillers to not feel anything at all, the panic on his face from the fact he could be going in to have surgery right now was like nothing Sam had seen before. And it made his heart ache for what the past 40 years had been like for him downstairs. The terror. _Constantly._  
“Dean? Hey, listen to me,” Tim leaned over him.  
“He’s having a panic attack,” Sam explained, putting his hand on his brother’s chest. “Breathe, Dean.”  
Dean was gulping in air, chest heaving. In a second he was going to break into a coughing fit and that would be very bad.  
“Dean!” Sam put his face in his brother’s eye line, “It’s okay… Slow breaths, alright? You got it, brother.”  
Dean seemed to calm. He pressed his eyes closed.  
“I wanna go home,” he whispered.  
It took everything Sam had not to cry.

…

Dean was poked and prodded and x-rayed and stripped down. He’d passed out from a massive drop in his blood pressure caused by acute, severe pain. Once they’d given him some fluids and painkillers he’d stayed conscious. Dr Reid had arrived at the hospital shortly after them and seeing the way Dean’s demeanour changed showed the trust he had in the man. At least that was the silver lining. They were more concerned about his spine and making sure no more trauma had occurred. So far, so good. Dean was on morphine, and out of his friggen tree. His shoulder was set now but they were taking him in to do the surgery early. It was a posterior dislocation, which was like 2% of all dislocations. Well, if anyone could do it, it was Dean. He’d torn something else apparently but there were no fractures at least. He was gowned up and ready to go. High as a friggen kite, which was undoubtedly a good thing. Sam hoped he wouldn’t remember the male orderly staring at his bare shoulder, handprint scar and all.  
 _“What the hell happened to this guy?”_  
Yeah, exactly. Hell.   
Sam had stayed with Dean until the last possible second, and even whacked out of his gourd, he’d still begged to be put under. As if they’d do the surgery with him awake, no anaesthetic, nothing. But it, again, reminded Sam of what Dean had been through, and it made him sick. 

…

Bobby stood up when he saw Sam walking back into the waiting room.  
“How’s he doing?”  
Sam slumped into a chair and Bobby followed.  
“They’re taking him in for surgery now… He’s messed up, Bobby.”  
“Yeah,” Bobby nodded, bowing his head, “He’s a tough kid. He’ll be alright.”  
“He’s just so scared… I’ve never seen him like that before.”  
“It’s gonna take some time, Sam. But your brother’s resilient. And by the time he’s healed up from this he’ll be back to being a pain in both our asses.”  
Sam chuckled, “God, I never thought I’d miss Dean being annoying.”  
Bobby slapped Sam on the back, then wrapped his arm around him and pulled him close. 

…

“Sam Winchester?”  
Sam shot up, knocking Bobby’s head off his shoulder when Dr Jacobs had finally come down the hallway to talk to him.  
“Yes, is there something wrong?”  
“Dean’s coming out of the anaesthetic and he’s not well orientated.”  
 _Crap._  
“Dr Reid informed me of Dean’s… situation. I think it’d be best for him if you –“  
“Of course.”  
As soon as Sam went through the doors of the waiting room he heard the screams. He began to break into a jog, Dr Jacobs having to run to get ahead of him to direct him to the room. It was the same old mantra. _Nooooo! Saaaaaam! Help me! Somebody heeeelp!_  
Sam burst into recovery and immediately found Dean. He was surrounded by nurses trying to subdue him. Luckily, his arm must have hurt too much to be moving it, but his other hand was gripping anything within reaching distance, which just happened to be one of the nurse’s shirts.  
“Dean!” Sam boomed, fighting his way to the bedside and releasing the nurse from Dean’s tight grasp.  
“Dean, hey. It’s okay… It’s okay. Shhhh…”  
Dean’s eyes were wild but they fixed on Sam, taking a moment before flashing with recognition.   
“Sammy?”  
“You’re not there. I promise, Dean. _I promise you_.”  
Dean’s eyes flitted over the people surrounding him.  
“Back up,” Sam ordered. It came out defensive and territorial.   
Once it was just Sam and Dean he calmed down.   
“Where am I?”  
“Hospital, Dean. Remember? You broke your wing,” he chuckled, pointing to Dean’s shoulder.  
Dean looked confused.  
“This is real,” Sam confirmed for him, squeezing his hand.  
“Shoulder surgery, right?”  
Sam nodded.  
“Kay, got it.”  
“You alright, now?”  
Dean smiled weakly and closed his eyes.  
“The nurse is gonna take your obs. You gonna let her?”  
Dean nodded, still smiling, but not letting got of Sam’s hand.

…

It took Dean a little while but he seemed to settle, the fight draining out of him. Bobby was with him in recovery while Sam went to grab some coffee. The surgery hadn’t taken that long but Sam hadn’t eaten or anything since they’d brought him in. He was staring at the vending machine, not even knowing what button to push, when Dr Jacobs appeared beside him.  
“Sam, how are you?” he asked, smiling politely.  
Sam furrowed his brow a little, then remembered to be nice, “I’m fine. Tired. Did something happen?”  
“No, no,” he shook his head, “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve requested a mental health worker to come and have a word to Dean.”  
 _Ohh, no, no, no._  
“What? What do you mean?” Sam’s eyes opened wider.  
“Well, considering his history of service and… what’s happened to him, I feel it’s the best course of action. Your brother is most likely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as other possible mood disorders, and substance abuse…”  
“Have you sent someone to see him now?”  
“Yes, I believe they’re in there talking to him now.”  
“Excuse me,” Sam said, abandoning his coffee and breaking into a run (again) down the hall to where Dean was being assessed.  
“ _Are you kidding me?_ ”   
He could hear Dean’s raised voice before he even opened the door.  
Bobby was standing at Dean’s bedside with a hand on his good shoulder.  
The male mental health worker was stepping slightly back as Dean continued to raise his voice.  
“I don’t _need_ to talk to anyone, about anything! I’m _fine_. What the _hell_ gives you the right to speak to _me_ about _my_ problems!”  
“Hey,” Sam said, walking over, trying to be a calming force in the room, “What’s going on?”  
“Nothing, Sam. He was just leaving,” Dean bit.  
“Dean, I know you’re not liking the idea of talking to me but I’m just here to assess how things are going for you to make sure you’re getting all the help you need.”  
“I don’t _need_ any help.”  
Dean was looking like he was about to get out of the bed and beat this guy down.  
To be completely honest, Sam was all for having Dean speak to a professional. He was concerned, to say the least, about Dean’s behaviour since he’d got back. And it would be fine for him to speak to someone, it would be _great_ for him to speak to someone, if he did just get back from Afghanistan. But he didn’t get back from Afghanistan. He got back from hell. _The_ hell. With fire and brimstone, and round the clock torture. So, Dean couldn’t rely on a guy with a degree. There were no qualifications to deal with that. It was just Sam. And Bobby. They’d just have to be enough.  
“Look, thank you for coming to talk with my brother, but I think it’s best if you leave,” Sam put his hand on the guys shoulder and walked him from the room as he heard Dean complaining to Bobby about being on display like he was in a zoo.   
“Listen…”  
“Anthony,” he supplied.  
“Anthony,” Sam nodded, “I appreciate you coming down, and I know Dr Jacobs is only looking out for what’s best for my brother when he asked you to see him, but Dean isn’t interested in talking to anyone about his mental state. I just need you to trust that my uncle and I have him in a supportive, stable environment, and what he’s going through we’re dealing with as a family. So, thanks for the sentiment, but we can handle it.”  
“Sam, I’m not sure that you can provide everything your brother needs –“   
“ _I_ am,” Sam said, face firm, before he turned on his heals and went back to Dean.   
“What the hell, Sam?” Dean griped as soon as he saw him.  
“I dunno, man. Let’s get you out of here.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Dean! You’re not driving home!” Sam shouted, banging his hands on the hood of the impala.  
“Neither of you are driving,” Bobby berated, “Dean, get in the back… _I’ll_ get the door.”  
Dean stood back and rolled his eyes as Bobby opened the back door for him.  
“I feel like a friggen kid.”  
“Maybe you wouldn’t get treated like one, if you stopped _acting_ like one,” Sam said, smug in the passenger seat.  
Dean sighed and leaned back against the bench seat gingerly.  
“Will you idjits shut your damn mouths? We’ve only just stepped out the door and you’re already going at it.”  
“Well, if _Dean_ –“  
“Oh, grow up, Sam…”  
“Both of you!” Bobby turned around to look at Sam, “Sam, cut your brother some slack. And Dean, you ain’t driving this car till that sling comes off, you hear me?”  
“But, Bobby, that’ll be _weeks_!”  
“No ‘buts’, son. You ain’t having a car accident on top of everything else.”  
Dean stared out the window in angry silence. Okay, so fine, he hadn’t really expected to get to drive home from the hospital but not being able to drive _at all_? That was the same as putting him on house arrest.   
His arm was still numb from the surgery that had occurred only hours before, and now he had an even bigger sling with a stupid pillow thing in between his arm and his chest, but at least it felt snug. They probably would have still been there if he hadn’t hightailed it after that douchebag mental health dude had tried to talk to him. Okay, yeah, sure, maybe he was a little off the rails. Maybe he was so far off the rails he’d lost sight of them all together, but that didn’t give someone the right to dig into his private life, see what was going on in his head. Hell, understanding what Dean had been through would send even the most level headed person howling to the nut house.   
“You alright, dude?” Sam said, over his shoulder.  
Dean broke out of his faraway stare, glared at his brother, “Peachy.”  
…

Dean fell asleep on the way home from the hospital. He was muttering lightly to himself.  
 _“No… no, please… stop…”_  
Sam glanced at Bobby as he took his eyes off the road to look at him. He knew he should wake him up because it was horrible just to listen to, knowing what horrors he was reliving, but Dean needed sleep. He needed to rest to get back on his feet… and, you know, maybe a new spine, but, one thing at a time.  
He gasped and woke when they were a few minutes away, coughing into his fist. That strained, dry, persistent cough.  
“Uh, god,” he groaned from the back seat.  
“Almost home, man.”  
Dean moaned and closed his eyes again.  
“Can we, uh, make a stop?”   
Sam looked back, “What for?”  
“…”  
“Dean?”  
Dean’s mouth quirked, his chest heaved with a sigh. He did that thing where his mouth moved before he spoke, like he was trying to figure out the words.  
“I need something…”  
 _Something._ Dean needed _something._  
“Booze, right?” Sam’s eyebrow went up, and he twisted more in his seat to face his brother.  
Dean licked his lips and swallowed.  
“Man, I know it’s hard. I know you’re going through a lot, but you gotta find something else to get you through. You’re killing yourself.”  
Dean blinked and Sam looked closer, noticed his brother’s eyes had reddened and turned glassy, looking anywhere but at Sam’s face.  
“Please, Sam,” was all he said.  
And, geez, Sam would have given him the world right then if he could. He would have done anything to take Dean’s pain away. But for now, he’d have to settle.  
“Make the stop, Bobby.”

…

Sam hated himself for giving in. After Dean had gone through the withdrawal and been so sick. When he was still healing from his chest infection, shoulder only recently been pinned back together, inflammation raging in his back. Alcohol was the last thing he needed. But, dammit, Sam didn’t know what to do. Dean was miserable. Frightened. And if the alcohol helped him forget, helped him get to sleep, numbed the pain a little, then who was he to say no?   
Dean took a generous swig from the backseat, hissing a little at the burn. Sam ignored how Dean’s hand shook as he grabbed the bottle from him, like his body was coursing with adrenaline just by knowing what he was about to get. Sam would let him drink. But he would monitor it, make sure Dean didn’t go too far.  
“Better?” Sam said, a little of the bitterness slipping out in the word.  
Dean opened his eyes, looked guilty and ashamed. He didn’t answer and just turned to look out the window.  
Bobby had remained silent through the whole exchange, knowing it was a touchy subject. There were some things that were better just shared among the boys. 

…

“I think there’s a game on,” Sam said, flicking the TV on a sitting down next to Dean.  
Dean’s painkillers were in full effect, and for a nice change he was sitting up on the couch, feet crossed on the coffee table, beer in his hand. He looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a wendigo… and lost. But he seemed happier, maybe even, dare say it, content. Sam wondered how much of that was the alcohols doing.   
Sam didn’t want to count his blessings, but for a moment, while the three of them sat there, watching the game, laughing, chatting, together. A family. Sam took a breath in and savoured it, because this was what it was all about. Dean, Sam, Bobby, _together_. As it should be. No ghosts, no monsters, no angels or demons, or the damn apocalypse. And in that moment Sam decided he would. He would give it all up for this. 

…

 _Three Weeks Later_  
Dean sipped his beer and watched the sun disappear behind the house across the street. Bobby had left a few days ago to go hunt a chupacarba or something. Dean didn’t ask. For the first time he wasn’t interested in that. It felt weird, stifling. For a long time Dean had known exactly who he was.  
 _A good soldier, and nothing else._  
But since this all started, since he got sick, since the pain had become all consuming, since the angels had given up on him, he had to face the reality that maybe he had changed. And maybe he wanted more. Maybe he did, dammit. But that didn't mean that after the things he'd done he deserved it. Those souls he tortured didn't get to walk away, why should he? Why should he get to move on, find a home, kick up his feet and drink a beer on a Sunday night, watching the game and eating wings and talking smack with his little brother? Why should he get to sit in a chair on the porch watching the sunset... every sunset... over and over, every day, never ending, when there were no sunsets in hell... no end of the day, no end of the torture. It just kept on and on and on...  
"Dean?"  
"Hm?"   
"Are you gonna come inside?"  
Dean cleared his throat, paused, "In a minute, Sam."  
"I made burgers for dinner. Do you want me to keep yours warm for you?"  
Dean turned to face Sam, fixing his mask in place. _Push it down._ He smiled, "Why didn't you lead with burgers, man?"   
He got up out of the chair and didn't wince, didn't moan, didn't cry... _Push it down._  
"You put extra onion on it, right?"

**The End**


End file.
